


hiding from you in this skin

by lightseep



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Arguing, Canon Compliant, Drunk Sex, Facials, Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightseep/pseuds/lightseep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to snatch them back. It’s everything he wanted to say, everything he felt ever since he heard her name, ever since he saw Harry’s face when he’d looked at her; and it didn’t have to be her, god knows it could’ve been anyone else, anyone on the planet, and Louis still would’ve wanted to destroy them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hiding from you in this skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jzayn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jzayn/gifts).



> to fulfill the prompt: "Louis and Harry fight after they've come home from New York, performing in Madison Square Garden."
> 
> title from "recover" by chvrches.
> 
> this entire thing would have been well and truly IMPOSSIBLE without the guiding love and support of [rachel](http://dicapriohmygod.tumblr.com) and [rebecca](http://walldrug.tumblr.com). thank you for putting up with my whining and demand for edits etc. etc. y'all my ride or die <3

The punch is too much vodka and too little cranberry so Louis downs his cup, thinks “fuck it,” thinks “good,” and snatches the ladle to fill another.

Everything tastes like poison.

Someone’s fucked up the snacks and there are crumbs everywhere, salt and sugar sticking to the table his mum had bought for him, but Louis can’t be bothered with cleaning it up. There’s something red and sticky dribbling down onto the carpet, forming a large puddle, and he has half a mind to think about how much of a pain that’s going to be to clean up later before someone knocks into the table, hard, tipping all the glasses over.

“Christ’s sake,” he says, shoving them aside quickly so he can catch the shot glasses rolling over. He doesn’t even know who the guy is but he looks sheepish enough before he stumbles off so Louis doesn’t snap at him. He gets to his hands and knees before he can think twice about it, snatching up pizza crusts and doing the best he can to mop up the stain with a damp paper towel.

Before he can stop it, his mind cuts back to the last time he had done this, been on his hands and knees scrubbing at his carpet. Harry had been beside him, had insisted all morning that they do this on their own without bringing in cleaners. The whole thing had been so silly and so domestic that he’d wanted to pass out with how good it’d felt. It was New Year’s morning and they’d been so hungover they were delirious with it, Harry asking every few seconds if it was okay to eat a piece of bacon he’d found and Louis groaning as loud as he could, trying to sound more put out than he actually was. At the time, he’d wondered if Harry had seen right through him. He would catch his eye every few seconds and smile, like he knew exactly what Louis was doing. It frightened Louis more than he cared to admit.

Later, after they had mostly picked up all the glass and done the best they could with the stains, Louis had pushed Harry to the carpet, sat on his dick, and rode him until his thighs ached. When he came it was to the sight of Harry with crumbs in his hair, sweat on his brow, and that same knowing smile on his face.

But it’s been a long time since they’ve done that. Louis wills the image out of his head now and doubles his efforts scrubbing at the stain.  

“Oi! Mate! What’re you doin!” The bass is so deafening that Louis hadn’t heard him walking over, but Niall claps him on the back all the same. He’s rosy from drinking, cheeks pink and eyes bright, and he’s holding a cup of something aquamarine that’s also found its way down the front of his shirt. “Party ain’t down there!”

Louis grins, grateful for the distraction, and gets to his feet. “No, I know, but if this stains again it’ll never come out.”

Niall laughs big, well on his way to drunk already. “Who’re you—Harry?”

Louis tries not to flush and smacks his lips. “Yeah, alright. Where’d you get that,” he asks, pointing to the cup.

Niall looks at it like he’s just realized he’s holding it. “Oh, dude—I don’t even know.” He takes a big sip and grimaces. “Tastes like piss though, to be honest.”

Louis snatches it and takes a huge gulp; it does taste like piss, rolls down his throat like medicine. It’s pure alcohol and pure sugar and he feels it the second it hits his stomach.

“Get me one,” he says to Niall, grinning and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Ah, there he is! The Tommo’s back!” Niall cackles and grabs his arm and pulls him towards the kitchen.

It’s Zayn’s birthday party so Louis doesn’t recognize half the people around him. They’re all beautiful, of course they are, and not for the first time Louis wonders if Zayn has aesthetic requirements when it comes to his friends. Louis looks for him now and sees him in the corner of the room, behind the DJ table with headphones on so big they almost swamp his entire head. He’s sloshing a cup around and keeps laughing, keeps switching songs halfway through so every few minutes everyone dancing has to stop and change rhythm. Niall’s still tugging Louis through the crowd but the beats are too infectious, the air too celebratory, to not get swept up in it.

Something pure pop comes on with an easy chorus, so Louis pulls on Niall to stop. They jump up with everyone and shout the lyrics as best they can. For a moment, Louis loses himself in it, loving the press of bodies around him and the beginnings of alcohol kicking through his veins. A girl, he thinks her name is Delia, blows glitter into his face and he laughs and kisses her cheek. Vaguely he notes that there’s glitter on the ceiling as well as those tacky plastic glow in the dark stars, and he can’t even get into the rhythm of the next song because he’s caught up in how the _fuck_ are there stars on his twelve foot high living room ceiling, Harry must’ve—

And just like that, all pretense of enjoying this party evaporates.

“That drink, Niall,” Louis says, shouting right in his ear. “Now.”

They get to the kitchen and it’s a wreck, of course it is, even worse than the mess in the living room. Apparently, people had brought their own alcohol which was—overly polite, given the effort Louis and the rest of the boys had put in earlier to stock up.

“Where’s the drink,” Louis asks Niall, glancing across the room. The vodka from earlier is finally starting to take effect, but it’s not enough. Louis turns to ask Niall again but he’s moved to talk to a group of people in the corner. Running a hand through his hair, Louis sighs and walks off to find it. There are huge barrels of liquid clustered in one corner; Zayn’s very own brainchild, Louis thinks, smirking to himself.

Earlier, when he and Zayn had gone to stock up, Zayn had pushed the trolley through Tesco like they were on a mission. “What you do, right,” Zayn said, “You get a huge barrel, like this,” and he had snatched five, shoving them down in the basket until they fit, “A _shit_ ton of liquor, some juices, some fizz, like this,” and they’d zoomed down the aisle, Zayn plucking bottles and dropping them into their baskets so fast Louis had barely had a chance to read any labels, “and you dump it all in! Mix it if you like, don’t mix it, just pour up and drink up! Cheers!”

Louis peers down into them now, each brightly colored and distinct. He grabs the closest cup to him and he doesn’t even dump it out before he fills it to the brim, with the same bluish green drink Niall had. He sips it and it’s strong enough to turn his stomach. Good, he thinks, drinking it for as long as he can in one go.

He wanders back into the main room where the music has only gotten louder and where more people have started dancing. He leans against the wall and feels the bass thumping in his shoulder blades. Zayn is still operating from the DJ booth and for a brief moment he thinks about going over to him. It is his birthday, after all, and he can’t remember if they’ve had a proper conversation since all the guests arrived.

Louis scans the dance pit, finds it hard to focus when everyone’s waving glow sticks around and someone’s turned on a strobe light, but he sees Liam right in the middle of everything, looking like he’s having the time of his life. Louis contemplates running to him as well, throwing himself into the middle of the crowd and feeding off Liam’s positive energy, marvels at how just a few months ago Liam would have never been the person he’d want to run to, for anything, and he’s getting ready to do it, taking one last disgusting gulp, when—

“Party ain’t over here.”

Louis turns his head and it’s Danny, leaning right beside him on the wall.

Louis chuckles. “You been talking to Niall? He said the same thing.”

Slow and easy, like he does everything, Danny smiles and takes a long pull from his beer. “Everything alright?”

Louis can imagine what he must look like. He’s never like this. It must seem off to everyone, it definitely feels off to him, the anomaly that is him not being the life of the party, running around like a lunatic and matching everyone shot for shot. “Yeah, all good,” he says, smiling in a way that he hopes is convincing. “You enjoying it?”

“Absolutely. Thanks again for letting us have it here at your place, it’s sick.”

“Thanks,” Louis says, feeling proud. “It’s not every day we’re home long enough to really put it through its paces.”

“I hear that,” Danny says, laughter rolling deep in his chest. “I heard earlier someone’s filled all your bathtubs with champagne. People are taking turns splashing around in it.”

“Really!” Louis shakes his head and laughs. “Has the birthday boy been in there yet?” he asks, tipping his cup to Zayn.

Danny pulls from the beer again, his tongue rolling across his lips after. “Nah. Too busy being a proper DJ, isn’t he?”

“Proper DJ’s know how to play the whole song though,” Louis says, just as Zayn skips the track right before the beat drops and a groan erupts from the crowd.

Danny looks at him for a second then laughs. “I reckon he can do what he wants.”

“Yeah, on today and every other day,” Louis says, smiling regardless, knowing all too well how no one can ever deny Zayn anything.

Danny tips his beer in salute and runs his hand up the long neck of it. His hand is big, Louis notices, seems at least twice the size it was the last time they hung out a few months ago. Someone comes and claps Danny on the back, stealing his attention for a second, so Louis cuts his eye to the side and looks at Danny’s profile. He’s bigger everywhere, it seems, more built and sculpted than Louis can remember. He’s in a simple enough outfit, dark t-shirt and dark jeans, but they fit him perfectly. There’s a confidence in how he’s standing, the set of his shoulders, the way he rests his weight on both feet, and it’s a confidence that Louis’ always responded to, a similarity in personality that’s always made Danny feel like someone who gets him. Danny hasn't styled his hair too much tonight, running his fingers through it easily now, and Louis tries not to focus on the way it falls softly across his forehead, just barely brushing at his temples.

When Danny turns back to him, Louis just barely has enough time to snatch his eyes away. His eyes had been roaming the column of Danny's throat, attention caught by the silver chains at his neck. Louis snaps his eyes back and gulps from his cup, lip curling as the liquid slides down his throat, only slightly easier to bear now, and coughs. He can feel Danny’s eyes on him from his periphery and before he knows it Danny has slid closer to him on the wall. The heat radiating off him is enough to prickle the hairs on Louis’ arm.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Danny asks, voice husky, and it doesn’t sound so much like he’s asking as much as observing. Louis turns his head to meet his gaze and his eyes are so close, staring right at him, so that for a minute he’s tempted, so tempted to shout _no_ and _no I’m not_ and _not at all_.

The air feels charged with something heavy, something unexpected, and Louis has no idea what to do with it. Suddenly, Danny takes his beer bottle and, ever so lightly, runs the neck up Louis’ hand to his wrist. The glass is cool on his skin and Louis does his best not to shiver. Danny’s whole upper body is leaning into him now, making it obvious how big he is, big enough to crowd Louis hunched as he is on the wall and keep him there. Louis stares at the condensation sticking to his wrist and tries to grab onto a thought that makes sense.

Danny swallows and opens his mouth like he’s about to speak but panic wells up in Louis’ throat and he’s choking out “Yeah, all good, need another drink though,” spinning away and back into the kitchen before he can hear what Danny’s got to say.

It’s quieter in the kitchen, not by much, but Louis doesn’t want to take a second to pause and hear his own thoughts.

His cup is empty so he steps over rubbish and through people and heads straight for the barrels. He fills his cup with what he reckons is at least a double shot’s worth, and knocks it back before he can second guess himself. The heart of the party is definitely not in the kitchen, but Louis can’t be bothered to be anywhere else right now. There’s a couple making out against the island, gross and overeager, and he looks away before his stomach really does turn.

It’s annoying, is the thing, the fact that he can’t shake how he’s feeling.

Usually it’s not so difficult as all this; god knows he’s done more damage with less motive before, but this feels so heavy, has _felt_ so heavy, that he just can’t shake it off. He figures that the alcohol coupled with the tunes Zayn is banging out coupled with the fact that he has four blissful days off to look forward to means that he can avoid his problems for at least a little bit.

Or so Louis tells himself, until he turns, cup full once again, to head back into the party only to lock eyes with Harry.

He’s standing outside so Louis sees him through the glass doors, in the middle of the garden with his phone clutched in his hand and pressed to his ear. Dusk is just starting to show itself, the sun falling away over the trees in the forest and casting last minute shadows over everything. There’s a patch of sunlight that hits Harry just right and he turns his face into it, holding his head back and closing his eyes. He’s prim, dressed up in a high buttoned shirt and blazer, dark jeans snug and low around his hips. 

Harry’s speaking into the phone but when he turns his head and locks eyes with Louis, his mouth freezes in midsentence and his throat bobs where the words are caught.  

Louis’ anger soars through him so fast he nearly reels from it. Harry’s staring right at him, mouth partly open, and he’s frozen like he’s waiting, like he doesn’t know how to act until Louis makes a move.

Good, Louis thinks, viciously. Don’t move at all. He hardens his expression and without dropping their gaze, he tilts his head back and shotguns his drink. His throat protests the whole time, the taste of it making him want to gag, but it’s worth it for the way Harry’s gaping at him, still not moving and still not speaking.

When Louis' done, he slaps the cup on the nearest counter and turns back to the party, grimacing as he walks away. He hopes, so strongly that it hurts, that Harry knows it’s because of him and not because of the alcohol. 

 

* * *

 

Harry was talking to Taylor.

Louis didn’t have to be told. He _knows_ that Harry was talking to Taylor because that’s all he ever does these days. If it’s not a text in the morning or a phone call in the middle of a rehearsal, making someone have to fill in for his chorus when he’s gone for ten, fifteen minutes, then she’s there in person. But even when she’s not there in person, she’s there. Her presence is there, and it’s been like a raincloud over Louis’ head for months now. Even when he’s not thinking about her he’s inevitably thinking about her, about the _not_ thinking about her, and every time he catches her looking at Harry he has to look away.

Taylor looks at Harry every few minutes like it sustains her, like she can’t go on without it, without reassuring herself that yes, he does exist and yes, he’s right there.

Louis would know what that feels like.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Harry from the moment he met him and it feels like he’s been looking at him ever since.

When they'd met, Louis hadn’t shut up about Harry to anyone who would listen. It was like a fever the way it’d spread in him, the way his infatuation had left the X Factor house and gotten bigger than the stage, the show, reached every corner of the world, it seemed, until he was getting tweets from strangers and Larry Stylinson was suddenly a name he knew and everybody knew; everybody could _see_ it, on their faces and in their hands and if their bodies hadn’t been enough of a tell, their voices were. Every other word out of Louis’ mouth had been some variation of Harry's name. 

Louis had loved the attention of the X Factor, the whole point being to get and keep attention, after all, but Harry— Harry had given him the most attention. The best part was that Louis hadn’t even had to ask for it, hadn’t even had to _try_ around him; it had just happened, had fallen out of Harry as easy as breathing. Louis couldn’t take two steps for bumping into Harry at every turn, couldn’t cough a bit throatily before Harry was running to the nearest kettle, couldn’t even get half the joke out of his mouth before Harry was doubled over and laughing.

The first time they kissed, it was easy, like coming home. They were set to do a twitcam in a few minutes and all the boys had been ready and present except for Harry. When it became obvious that no one knew where he was, everyone, even the film crew, had turned to Louis, expectant looks on their faces. Louis had been just as clueless as the rest of them so he had told the boys to stall for a bit while he checked around. And he couldn’t be far, would never miss something as important as this, but he wasn’t in the bathroom, and he wasn’t on the balcony outside, and he wasn’t in their—

“Harry!” Louis had run into their room, heart plummeting, when he saw that Harry was tucked away in the corner behind the beds, curled into himself, and breathing like he’d forgotten how. Louis had crouched beside him and touched his forehead, cringing at how sweaty it was, terrified at how Harry’s chest had kept moving, heaving, and finally somewhat relieved when he realized that—

“You’re having a panic attack?” He had tried not to sound afraid, showing his inexperience, but he couldn’t help it. They all knew Harry sometimes got a bit sick before live performances, but this—this was new. Harry had nodded, laughing a little hysterically, but he hadn’t stopped looking at Louis. Louis hadn’t wanted him to. It came to him easily, comforting Harry, and he’d never seen anyone having a panic attack before but at the time it had felt like nothing was more important, nothing more vital, than being good for Harry.

They’d sat there for long minutes, Louis sitting in front of him and Harry holding onto his knees to stop his hands from shaking. Eventually Louis had noticed and, delicately, twined their fingers together so Harry could hold onto him instead, squeezing the life out of Louis’ fingers.

They had only known each other for weeks at that point. Louis didn’t know what Harry was allergic to or what his house looked like but at the drop of a pin, for the first person who asked, he could tell them what Harry sounded like first thing in the morning and the specific way his eyes lit up when he was flirting and how the veins in his neck popped when he sang with all his heart and how, when he was having a panic attack, he’d clench your fingers so hard you’d swear you could hear the bones cracking.

So when Louis had looked at Harry, had watched him slowly get his breath back and the color in his face, when he had looked at him and realized that he, maybe, didn’t want to look at anyone else in the same way for a very long time, he had tightened his knuckles around Harry’s and he had leaned forwards and exhaled right against his lips.

Harry had whimpered and his heart had still been rabbiting under Louis’ palm but he had kissed him back and pushed his tongue inside like he didn’t want to look at anyone else, either.

 

* * *

 

The last time they kissed, it was angry, like they hated each other.

Louis figures that he kind of did hate Harry in that moment, that maybe that’s why it had come so naturally to him, raising his voice like it was the only weapon he had.

By the time Louis got back to their hotel room, stomach churning and head unsteady, Harry was standing in the middle of the room fresh from the shower. His fingers were still damp and slick as they slid on his phone. He was already making plans to go out with random people in a random city that he barely knew.  

Louis had started it, of course. It had been something stupid, something mundane that he didn’t even care about, but it was an easier hurt to latch onto than what was really hurting him. Than what had just happened a few hours ago, crashing into his life so fast he barely had time to recognize and name it. So Louis had leapt on it, pulling from the pettiest, most random hurts that he had, had thrown them at Harry until Harry was forced to attack back, until they were both pouncing on each other with words.

Louis had lost it, is what he’d done.

He had yelled until his voice got shrill and when he felt his throat catching in a way that he knew meant he was going to cry, he had directed all his energy to another release instead.

Harry might be bigger than him, but that hadn’t stopped Louis from pressing him into the wall and pressing his palms into his broad, still wet shoulders, and pressing his mouth right on Harry's and pressing, and pressing, and pressing into him all the things he didn’t want to say.

That was two months ago. Louis hadn’t really known what he’d been trying to say and Harry hadn’t asked.

But Louis had held himself open and sat on Harry's cock all the same. Harry had thrust so deep into him that he could feel it on his spine, couldn’t sit properly for days after. In that room, in the last of the twilight creeping through the windows, Harry had just lain there, curling his toes into the carpet, silent like he didn’t even care.  

 

* * *

 

The first time anyone had mentioned it, it was early November and they were at a meeting.

That morning, things had been fine; if you counted being hungover and under-caffeinated as being fine.

Louis didn’t. Harry had been trying this new “thing” (“You don’t have to do that all the time, Lou, just say it normally”) where he, according to Louis, denied himself everything that made living worthwhile. No caffeine, no sugar, very minimal salt, no alcohol, and on and on. So not only was Louis hungover and under-caffeinated, he was hungover and under-caffeinated _alone_. Harry couldn’t be persuaded so he’d been forced to go out the night before with Niall, which was never a good idea, honestly, Niall who could probably drink his own father under the table, and Louis had woken up late, to no coffee in the room and no kettle on. Harry had clucked his tongue at him, saying they didn’t have time and they’d stop at Starbucks before the meeting, he promised they would, but Louis had grumbled and rolled into the shower knowing it was a lie. Harry never stopped for anything. If they were anything but right on time Louis was convinced Harry would have a low-grade heart attack.

So there they were, sat around an oval table in a stuffy, windowless room, nary a cup or kettle to be seen. There was a crooked painting on the wall, something impressionistic, or was it surrealist? and usually it wouldn’t, but it had captured Louis’ attention in a way that all the people around the table couldn’t. He was busy wondering who decided that something was art, that these squiggles and colors meant something important, when he had heard her name.

It might as well have been an anvil for the way it dropped. Before he had a second to clue in to the details of what was happening, his stomach had plummeted like it already knew, like his body already knew, and there it was: one of the suits, a woman he didn’t recognize, had said it, as easy as you please, but she kept going; Louis couldn’t remember ever hating the way Harry’s name sounded before, but he hated it when it fell out of her mouth.

In that moment, half the eyes in the room turned to him and the burning pain of it had nearly lit his skin on fire. He’d wanted to jump up, to leave, to crack a joke, to do anything to diffuse the tension that now clung to everything.

“You have a lot in common,” one of the suits croaked, mouth a thin straight line.

“She’s truly a sweet girl,” another one added.

“It’s up to you,” they had all pressed, diligent on that point, but the way no one else spoke and the way it was _Harry_ who had been chosen, suggested that they already had their answer. 

Louis had held his breath and not said a word.

For the rest of the meeting they rolled through topic after topic, dates for press conferences and upcoming charity events, but Louis hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything other than that painting.

He knew that if he dropped his eyes for a second, if he moved his head even a little, he’d be forced to look at Harry and he could not bear to see his face. His voice had been enough, soft and unchallenging, when he’d said “okay” and Louis had been able to hear the grin in it, sense the rise and fall of his shoulder like it didn’t even matter, like it was nothing. 

After the meeting, Louis had taken a separate car and gone to Starbucks and ordered the sweetest, most caffeinated, largest drink on the menu. He had sat down and drank it, alone, and when he finished he had told the driver to take him back to the hotel where he had ran up the seven flights, not trusting the confinement of the elevator, and had thrown open their hotel door to see Harry fresh out of the shower, making plans with people who were not him.

 

* * *

 

It’s amazing how a lot of alcohol and a little concentration can turn your mood right the hell around, Louis thinks now, as he launches himself into the thickest mass of people on the dance floor.  

The crowd must have tripled in size, at least; or maybe that’s his vision swimming, but he feels giddy and reckless again and he’ll be fucked if he wastes another minute thinking about something that isn’t moving his body. So he lets the crowd push him forward, so many voices he doesn’t know roaring in his ears, and he opens his throat and roars right back.

He eventually knocks into Liam, which is funny, because Liam looks like…like—

“Mate,” Louis shouts, eyes squinting, “who attacked you!”

There are lipstick prints all over Liam’s face. Reds and purples and oranges, smears of it, all down his neck and on his collar. His eyes crinkle as he laughs and he’s pretty drunk, head swaying to the deep beat of whatever trap song Zayn’s just turned on even as he narrows his eyes to focus on Louis better.

“Bro…bro! We did a spin the bottle for like, 10 minutes? Ago?” He points over his shoulder in the direction of the hallway. “We missed you, where were you!” He throws an arm around Louis’ neck and pulls him in, mussing his hair and pushing his face into his armpit. Louis curls up and laughs, clawing at his side until he lets him go.

He leans closer to his ear so he can hear him. “Nowhere, it’s nothing. I was a bit…” he stops, running a hand through his hair and trying to figure out what to say, what excuse he can use to get him back on level ground. Liam is staring at him, suddenly patient and calm in the midst of all the dancing, flailing limbs around them. He claps a hand on Louis’ shoulder and squeezes.

“I saw you, talking to Danny,” he jerks his head off to the wall where they’d been only minutes ago but what feels like hours. “Told him to check on you. You looked ready to kill.”

Louis blinks. “You sent him over?”

“Yeah. You were right pouty mate! And usually when you’re like that, it’s Harry—like, Harry’s, like…” but he trails off, looking wary, because of course he knows.

Louis mentally cringes and shakes his head. “Nah, it’s good!”

Liam smiles, like he’s thankful. “Yeah, because Danny like…you’re always like…on the same page,” he says, squeezing Louis’ shoulder again so he can feel the pressure on the bone. “Just wanted to make sure you were having a good time.” He sounds so sincere, even as someone bumps into his back and jostles him forward.

Trust Liam to wedge himself in an issue that has nothing to do with him, to find a space where he could fit and be of help and to do it effortlessly, to do it well. Louis’ heart swells and he moves his hand up to cover Liam’s, squeezing right back, and he pouts his lip out.

“Awwwwww,” he draws it out, adding a frown to it, until Liam laughs and shakes his head, blushing anyways.

“Now let’s dance!” Louis screams right in his ear, and the beat drops. He throws his head back and throws his body into it and doesn’t think about anything at all.

It doesn’t take long before it feels like his whole bloodstream is flooded with alcohol. The bass is so deafening in each song that he can feel the vibrations through his feet on the floor and every so often he has to catch himself so he doesn’t slip on a stray bottle. Someone’s started up the strobe lights again so everything keeps coming to him in nanosecond increments; Liam’s still beside him, so close he can see the sweat on his forehead, and Louis laughs again when the lip prints come into focus. He runs his hand across his own face and marvels at the sweat there, loves how he’s finally starting to feel dirty, to feel the party in his bones. And it can’t be Zayn working the music, not anymore, not with the way it’s effortlessly flowing from one song to the next.

Louis pumps his fist in the air a few times then moves his body, curving it to the beat, and pushes Liam aside for a second so he can get a look at who’s behind the music.

The strobe lights are making it hard to concentrate and the alcohol swimming in his brain makes it hard to focus and there’s long hair flying around, arms covered in glitter blocking his view, until someone jumps just far enough out of the way and it’s—

Danny.

He’s moving his body to the beat, shoulders hunched over and hands skating across the board. His hair is still falling slightly on his forehead like it was earlier, but it’s sticking this time, damp with sweat. There’re dark stains growing under his armpits that Louis can see every time he raises his arms, clapping his hands above his head. His whole body is a part of the process, the muscles in his arms popping every time he moves to do something and his head can’t keep still, constantly finding and keeping the beat.

Everything in Louis’ body feels rhythmic, the music drawing him further into its trap, and he can’t look away.

It’s been a while since he wanted to impress someone this much, but he realizes that's what this is; rolling his hips into it and stepping his feet through it, that’s exactly what this is.

Just then, Danny cuts on something that’s pure bass, pure rhythm, no words at all. But it’s deep, so primal, that Louis’ body starts moving before he can think about it. There are people on either side of him, trapping him in, and they’ve all slowed down to match the beat, everyone doing their best to join in one collective grind. Louis scans the crowd. Liam is a slight ways away but with a few shoves, Louis gets right up on him. He doesn’t even bother saying anything, just pulls him, stumbling, back to the spot he was in, closer to the DJ table and where the bodies aren’t pressed as thick.

Before Liam can so much as blink, Louis catches the beat and, holding one arm around Liam’s neck to steady himself, rolls his hips up until they connect.

If Liam is anything but totally into this, Louis can’t see it on his face because Liam won’t look up. He’s too busy looking down, watching the space where Louis’ thigh keeps connecting with the crotch of his jeans. His hands are holding Louis’ waist steady but he’s still not quite with it, bless him. So Louis laughs and shakes his head, leans forward to bite his ear, and whispers, pleading, “Dance with me.”

It’s not like they haven’t done this; it’s not like all the boys don’t know how Louis gets when he’s drunk and there’s a good song on and there are people, with eyes, who can watch him move.  They can be innocent about it when they need to, dancing in circles around each other at high-trafficked clubs where they’ll be noticed the second they walk through the door. But when it’s just them, when they manage to ditch a few of the bodyguards and find a locals only place, a place in a city where they don’t speak the language, anything goes.

With the music Danny’s choosing, the only feasible option is grinding. And Louis _loves_ grinding, takes a second to focus on how good his body feels pressed up against someone else’s, against Liam’s. It’s so rare that they get to do this that Louis can feel it in Liam’s hands, in how tight his grip is already, in how he’s doing his best to catch the rhythm with Louis and slide on it. In a club, they’ve always got to keep their guards up. But here, in his own house, surrounded by people all bound by Zayn’s wrath to love and respect him, Louis can do whatever the fuck he wants.

And what the fuck he wants, he thinks now, is a hard cock pressed against his own.

Liam knows exactly what to do. He digs his fingers in, making Louis gasp, and forcibly tugs him closer. There’s glitter on his neck that Louis can see, shining against the sweat. Liam holds him tight until he can’t do anything _but_ roll his hips up, sliding his pelvis along Liam’s thigh. It’s so wide, is the thing, so Louis has to widen his stance to get on it right, to keep moving to the beat but also finding where it’s most comfortable. As soon as Liam gets his hands on Louis’ ass, cupping him through his jeans, he pulls him forward and thrusts at the same time.  

And finally, _finally_ , Louis feels the first roll of arousal in his gut.

“Yes,” he breathes out, throwing his head back, as he and Liam finally catch the beat and move on it.

It’s been so long since he’s done this that he’d almost forgotten how much his body always melts into it. He knows how to move his body, curving his hips and spine in a way that both shows off his shape and gets him what he wants, and he doesn’t hesitate to do it now. He looks at Liam’s face and Liam finally looks up, biting his lip, and grins at Louis like he knows exactly what he’s doing. And what’s _with_ that, Louis thinks distractedly, with everyone looking at him like they can see right through him. Is he that goddamn transparent.

“Am I that goddamn transparent?” he shouts right into Liam’s ear, right as he slides his hardening cock up his thigh.

Liam chuckles and it rumbles through him. “Yeah, mate,” he says, taking his hand back and slapping Louis’ ass as hard as he can. Louis laughs, rolling his hips into it, and remembers a time when he and Liam couldn’t be bothered to so much as give each other the time of day. And look at them now.

People are looking, Louis notices, have fanned out to create a space where they have room to move and where they can be watched. Louis is used to it, in a way, knows more or less what he looks like when he gets like this, but Liam goes pink right to the tips of his ears. He doesn’t seem to care too much though, not when he keeps moving in time with Louis, in time with the drumming music, and keeps his thigh so blessedly still so Louis can ride it, grind on it how he wants.

Louis digs his nails into Liam’s neck, loving how small his hand looks against it, and, not for the first time, wonders what would happen if he kissed him. If he just, opened his mouth and—

There’s a weird cut in the music, an awkward transition from one song to the next, but Louis barely registers it because, suddenly, Liam detaches himself fully from Louis’ arms and walks away, disappearing back into the crowd.  

Louis gapes and flails, not expecting it. He stands dumbfounded for a second, ready to follow Liam if he has to. But then there are warm hands on him from behind, one at his neck and one at his waist.

For a split second, he remembers those hands, the phantom memory flooding back to him in a rush. They’re big, and it’s been so long but he’s used to that, that pressure at his neck, and he looks down just to see them, but it’s not—it isn’t—

“Danny,” he breathes out, curling his head around. It’s hard to see him clearly because of the way he’s gripping his neck, but it smells like him, expensive and dangerous. Danny’s biting his lip and staring straight into Louis’ eyes.

“Do you,” he hisses, leaning forwards and stepping even closer into Louis’ space, “have any,” he continues, pressing on Louis’ neck with the pads of his fingers, “idea what you look like?” His voice thunders out of him and Louis can hear it clearly, even over the pulse of the music.

It’s been so long, he thinks, _so_ long, and it’s the only thought with space in his brain, the only thing he’s operating on aside from the alcohol still buzzing through him.

So he punches his hips back until he can feel the shape of Danny through his jeans and he lets arousal lick through every part of him.

The beat is still filthy, deep and infectious, so it doesn’t take long at all for them to get into it. And Danny is definitely into it. He’s aggressive in a way that Liam wasn’t, in a way that most people aren’t when it comes to Louis; he’s aggressive like he isn’t afraid of him, like he knows he doesn’t have to try hard to impress him because he already has his attention.

In the fuzzy haze that is his mind, Louis finds cause to be a little annoyed at that. Nobody _has_ me, he thinks, rolling his hips even so and baring his throat so Danny can grip it easier. _Nobody_ has me, he tells himself, feeling the sweat slide down his spine.

Danny’s hands are warm where they touch him, creeping down and curling over his thighs. Louis’ jeans are tight but he can still feel where Danny’s squeezing them in the same moment that he curls his hips into him, thrusting forward just as Louis thrusts back. It’s the best kind of grinding, slow and steady, and Louis wants to remember this, wants Danny to think about this later, weeks from now, when he’s looking down at his phone and wondering whether he should text him. 

Danny hunches down until his mouth is right by Louis’ ear. “Is this ok?” he asks, and Louis startles slightly at the genuine concern in his voice. He almost laughs because if Danny can’t read the signs of his body, can’t physically see how _okay_ this is, then Louis’ not sure he’s doing it right. Instead of speaking, he swivels his hips in a circle, takes one of Danny’s hands in one of his own tiny ones and presses it to his dick in the front of his jeans.

“More than,” he says, reaching his neck back and straining so the words ghost right over the shell of Danny’s ear. But Danny still looks a little panicked, there’s an odd look in his eye like something isn’t right, and frankly it’s threatening to kill the vibe they’ve got going, so Louis frowns and follows his gaze back into the crowd and over to the side where he’s staring.

It’s Harry.

Louis’ body jolts forward so fast he nearly falls over.

Harry’s not moving, just staring at them, but his mouth is a straight line and he’s not blinking. He looks out of place. There are people on either side of him, gyrating and dripping sweat, but it’s like Harry doesn’t even register them.

Every angry thought Louis had earlier, every little annoyance that had built up over the last few months, flares up in him now like it was never gone in the first place. 

Louis looks at Harry, stares straight at him until their eyes connect, and puts all the hate he can possibly muster into a smirk. He reaches one hand up until he closes around Danny’s neck and, slowly, deliberately, he moves the other, palm face down, and presses it on his own dick.

He swallows and turns his head again, this time so his lips brush across the sweat on Danny’s neck and he says, assertively, “It’s fine.” He turns his head back around and finds Harry’s gaze at the exact moment that Danny grips his hips and grinds into him hard enough to make him lose his breath.

The beat picks up a little and Louis doubles his efforts. He closes his eyes and floats on it, the feeling of Danny big and broad behind him and holding him up, rocking his cock into him, giving him what he wants without making him ask for it or lift a finger at all and, Christ, this is easy.

Sweat’s pooling down his back and he only notices it when Danny runs a hand up under his shirt, sliding down his spine and stopping at his lower back, digging his thumbs into the dimples there. He rolls his hips even harder, reveling in how it must make his muscles look, and completely gives up trying to keep his breaths even. Danny’s hand snakes around to his front again and with his palm, wide and flat, he presses it right at the base of Louis’ dick, right where his balls are just starting to swell up. Louis whines and tosses his head and grips Danny’s neck again.

There are bodies on either side of them, everyone’s gradually gravitated closer as the music got dirtier, but suddenly there’s someone too close to him so Louis has to open his eyes to see who it is.

It’s Harry; nothing at all has changed about his murderous look except for the fact that it’s now about three feet away from his face.

Before he can stop it, Louis opens his mouth and lets out a moan, loud enough to be heard over the thumping of the music, and thrusts right up into Danny’s hand.

Harry’s eyes flash. He moves forward so quickly that if Louis had blinked he would have missed it. He steps right into him, right into his space, and either Danny doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care but he doesn't stop. 

“What’re you doing,” Harry says, and his voice is dry, void of any emotion whatsoever. His breaths are coming short though, Louis can see it in the rise and fall of his chest.

“What’s it look like?” Louis counters, holding onto Danny’s wrist that’s still pressing on his dick.

“Looks like you need a room,” Harry responds.

Louis knows all the signs for it, has spent countless hours cataloging them and learning them and actively provoking them, for fuck’s sake, but that doesn’t mean it annoys him any less: Harry’s angry. He’s furious. Well _fuck_ Harry’s anger.

“Might do,” Louis says back, letting the words drip out of his mouth, grinning in the most threatening way he knows how. He refuses, he absolutely refuses, to look away from Harry’s glare.  

Slowly, Harry steps forward even closer until their feet touch, until Louis could pull his collar if he wanted to. Harry’s right up on him so he can’t see past him and Danny’s holding him so tight that he can’t move.

“You might do what…” Harry’s voice is barely sound, barely anything at all, and the only reason Louis knows what he said is because he'd flicked his gaze to his mouth. 

Danny’s cock is fattening up, Louis can feel it where it keeps pressing into his lower back, and that alone is enough to give him the strength to say, “Might take Danny up to our bed and—”

Quicker than he thought possible, Harry takes one final step forward and closes his hand so fast around Louis’ throat that he’s forced to swallow the words back down.

For a minute, Louis wants to scream. Wants to thrash out. Wants to cry. It’s the first time Harry’s so much as put a finger on him in months and the pressure of it feels so good that for a moment he forgets his anger, forgets everything but the fact that Harry is here; he’s finally right _here_.

Until he looks at Harry’s face again. His eyes are dark and the strobe light has started up again so he looks demonic. It’s too much stimulation all at once, the music and Danny behind him and Harry in front of him, giving him more attention than he’s given him in literal _months_ , shit, but Harry’s hand on his neck is so right he wants to keep it there forever.

Too soon, Harry licks his lips and loosens his grip, like he’s about to let go. His lips part to speak. Panic courses through Louis so he knocks the hand away and off his throat, shaking his head and grimacing because he doesn’t want to hear it. He grabs Harry by the collar, by the prim _fucking_ starched neck of his collar, and he pulls hard enough to wrinkle it twice over, until he slots his thigh between Harry’s legs and they’re close enough to where he can curl his face, and his groan, straight into the dip of his neck.

Danny, bless him, hasn’t said a single word the entire time but there’s a loss of pressure on Louis’ back, like Danny’s trying to distance himself. Before he can move away, Louis digs his nails into Danny’s waist. He must understand, because the next thing Louis feels is thumbs digging into his lower back and holding him in place.

Louis leans back into the space in Danny’s arms and looks straight into Harry’s face.

Harry, who he hasn’t seen this close in months and who’s looking at him like he can’t quite believe he exists.

The beat gets dirtier, slicker, so Louis grinds up into Harry and rolls his ass back into Danny before he can think twice about it.

Harry stares at him for a second before he decides, apparently, that he’s going to be accommodating. He straddles Louis’ leg and grinds down onto it, fast enough that Louis is thrown by it, barely has any leverage to thrust forward at all. Harry puts one hand around the back of Louis’ neck and the other on his waist, right above Danny’s, and both their hands are so big that for a second Louis just has to feel it, has to remember it, how it feels like they could crush him if they wanted.

But Harry’s got a look on his face and that isn’t how this is supposed to go. Harry isn’t supposed to look cheeky, Louis thinks. Harry isn’t supposed to be okay with this, with seeing Louis like this. And alright, maybe he isn’t okay, because he’s not looking at Danny at all, only looking down at Louis. But it feels so fucking good to have all that weight behind him and in front of him, all that pressure, that Louis can’t do anything but focus on his own arousal.

Harry’s never been a particularly good dancer, but grinding isn’t dancing. It’s fucking, for all Louis cares, it’s the thinnest veiled pretense to fucking and it’s primal, turns Harry into an animal, and Louis will never tell anyone, will take it to his grave, but it’s half the reason why he loves this so much.

Harry grinds like he fucks, with all his attention on Louis and none saved for himself. His limbs seem to move without direction, without being consciously told, and wherever they go is always exactly where Louis needs them. Since Danny’s hands are at his waist, Harry bypasses that and brings his hands right up Louis’ middle, where he presses his fingers into the slats of his ribcage. Determination is clear on his face, and he’s still not looking away. Louis rewards him for it, for his attention, by knocking his thigh up again and this time he can feel where Harry’s dick is pressed, where it’s starting to curve, slightly to the right like it does, where it’s probably getting wet at the tip. 

Louis has to clamp his mouth shut before he says anything about that, anything dumb like _let me see_ or  _please_ , but arousal runs through him all the same. 

Harry isn’t wearing any product so his hair is falling freely, curling where sweat is clinging to it, and he tilts his head to get it off his face. Louis’ whole body feels enclosed, entrapped, and he couldn’t leave if he wanted to. He’s drunk with it, with being wanted like this, with having this kind of power and getting what he wants without even having to say it.

Like he read his thoughts, Harry takes a hand and presses it to Louis’ dick, right at the top of his jeans where it’s threatening to slip out, and Louis doesn’t have a choice but to drop his head back on Danny’s shoulder and hiss his pleasure.

Harry, too, isn’t afraid of him, and he’d almost forgotten that, was easy to forget it, in the weeks they’d spent tiptoeing around each other like they’d explode if they got too close. To show it, Harry digs his palm in and squeezes, just how Louis likes.

The music is so much a part of this that Louis can barely hear it anymore, but he can feel it just as he feels every press of Danny behind him, every push of Harry in front of him. He’s clenching on nothing, he realizes, when Danny finally gets a hand down the back of his pants and runs his knuckles down the flesh of his ass.

Harry steps back so fast it’s like he was burned.

He’s looking at Danny now, glaring at him in a way so unnatural that it’s frightening, but Danny can’t see because he’s nosing in the sweat at Louis’ neck, watching the curve of Louis’s spine and his ass and watching how his fingers on Louis’ skin make him goosebump.

Louis wants to enjoy it, his body reacting because it _is_ enjoying it, but the second Harry steps away from him it feels like he’s drowning.

Harry stares at them both for a minute, looking so out of place again in the sea of bodies all around him. His face falls when he looks at Louis but he doesn't say a word and he hunches and turns away, pushing his way through the crowd.

Louis swallows and rolls his head back on Danny’s shoulder and stares at the ceiling. The stars are still glowing.

 

* * *

 

Because Harry is predictable, it takes less than a minute for Louis to find him.

Because Louis is predictable, there’s already a scream at the ready on his lips when he flings open their bedroom door.

Through some unspoken rule, when they’d come back home for holiday Harry had claimed their bedroom so Louis had been forced to inhabit the guest room. It had been weird and awkward, to say the least, to come home separately and barely speak to each other, but Louis was planning on driving to his mum’s and spending the break there as soon as Zayn’s party was over, anyways. The guest room he chose was on the other side of the house and it smelled nothing like Harry, held no traces of either of them, and the one night he’d spent in it had felt more like a prison than anything had thus far.

So as soon as Louis storms into their room, he’s forced to stop in his tracks because he can’t breathe.

The smell of Harry is everywhere, on everything, and every _thing_ is everywhere, too, all of Harry’s shit scattered and thrown about. It’s been a long time since he’s seen their bedroom but with the mess Harry’s made it might as well be unrecognizable to him. Harry’s never like this; the kind of mess currently in here would get Louis’ stamp of approval in a heartbeat, but Harry’s the tidy one. His suitcases are open on the floor and clothes are hanging out of them, some half folded but mostly just balled up. 

The free weights are out by the bed, right where Harry leaves them every morning. Louis thinks that if he'd been staying in here he would’ve woken up to the sound of Harry grunting, as quietly as he could, with the weights in his hands and his biceps curling, sweat already glistening on his chest. Louis would have stared at him and watched him do it, would have reached down and pulled one off without a second thought, and Harry would’ve laughed, straining to focus on keeping his arms moving, the sun through the window on his hair. Now, the window is thrown open and letting in the coldest air possible.

Harry’s sitting at the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, and he’s thrown his blazer off so he’s just in his crisp shirt, rolled to the elbows, and his jeans. Louis looks past him, distracted by how the bed is tangled. How the sheets and the pillow on his side of the bed, the side _he_ always sleeps on, are rumpled and disheveled while Harry’s side of the bed is pristine.

Someone might as well have struck him across the face.  

“Get the fuck out, Louis.” Harry doesn’t even look up as he says it.

Louis looks away from the bed. “I have to talk to you,” he says, and his voice is ripe with anger, still, but also with fear.

He looks at the floor, across the room, at his reflection in the mirror, anywhere but at Harry. Finally he walks over to the desk across from the bed and props himself up onto it, spreading his legs and dangling his feet. 

It’s quieter up here, but not by much. The music floats up through the vents, the bass pulsing through the walls, but it’s silent enough that Louis can hear the ringing in his ears. It’s a little awkward, sitting on the desk with a softening hard-on, but all he’s got to do is think about the reason he’s up here and that does wonders to soften him right on up. Everything he wants to say keeps catching in his throat. The seriousness of what he wants to do is sobering him up a little, but he still feels woozy, off kilter with it, and he wonders why people think it’s easier to tell the truth when you’re drunk because that’s definitely not how he’s feeling. There’re so many places to start but he doesn’t know how to choose.

“Why,” Harry asks, short and clipped, and finally he holds his head up. He rests back on his palms and curls his fingers into the sheets. It’s the stupidest question in the world so of course it’s the one Harry chose. At this point a blind man could see they had to talk.

“Why do you think,” Louis snaps. His impatience always gets the best of him but the alcohol makes it worse, makes it flare up easier, and faster.

Harry shrugs, shakes his hair out and runs his hands through it and hell, Louis’ missed seeing that. Harry just stares at him, like he’s not going to make this easy.

Louis rolls his eyes. “About, like—us,” he elaborates, gesturing with his hand between the two of them.

Loudly, Harry scoffs and plucks his phone out his back pocket. He’s texting. Again. Not looking away from the screen he mumbles, “What about us?”

And no one, nothing on the planet, could have prepared Louis for the way it felt like his heart had stopped.

Fury is comforting but it’s distracting and he feels it calling his attention. “You know what I’m talking about,” he spits out.

“Not really, because you’re like…not actually talking about it,” Harry says, still mumbling into his phone, punching on the keys.

Louis kicks his feet against the wood of the desk and the sound splits through the silence. He realizes that he’s still a bit drunker than he thought. “I’m trying to do that now.”

“So do it,” Harry says, careless.

Oh for god’s sake. “Tell her you’ll talk to her later.”

That gets Harry’s attention, of course it does. He looks up, eyes narrowed. “What?”

Louis’ skin feels taut, struggling to hold all the rage he’s built up, and it hits him, again, that even when she’s not there, she’s there. She’s right there, might as well be kneeling at Harry’s feet before him. He steels his voice and bites it out, hating to have to say it again. “Tell her. You’ll talk to her. Later.”

“Look, I don’t know what—”

“ _Fuck_ , Taylor!” It’s such a relief, to finally say it, to hear it shouted in his own voice, that he nearly laughs at the joy of it. “ _Fuck_ her. Tell her you’re busy and you’ll talk to her the fuck later.”

Harry’s eyes widen and he sits up, straightens his back. “And what, exactly, am I busy with?” Louis’ surprised but he doesn’t show it, hadn’t expected that to be the part of what he said that Harry would focus on.

“We’re having a conversation.”

“Are we? Or am I about to be lectured to?”

Louis’ breath catches and he doesn’t lecture; he doesn’t. “Fuck you, Harry.” It’s not clever, but it’s all he’s got. And there’s fury again, spinning everything out of control. “You know what, I change my mind, why don’t you just call her—”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry’s quick, and Louis wasn’t expecting this, this sudden return to two months ago like they’re picking up right where they left off. Harry’s eyes are fire. He gets to his feet and points right at Louis. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?” Louis crosses his arms tight to his chest.

Harry flings his hand between them, like that answers it. “ _This_ , this—you don't get to start something and then not finish it.”

“Can’t I?” Louis raises an eyebrow.

Harry looks perplexed. “No. It’s stupid and it’s not fair.”

“To who,” Louis asks, voice steely. A cold wind blows through the window but he barely feels it.

“To me, obviously, what the fuck, Louis—”

“You did it to me,” Louis says, and the words twist on the way out, burning his tongue. He’s not sure what the expression on his face must be but he knows he never wants to find out.

Harry stops, mouth still open, and stares. The party’s still going strong downstairs and the music’s changed from deep house to pop anthems. Everyone’s scream-singing and their voices travel up through the vents, their jumping making the walls rattle so Louis can feel it in his shoulders as he leans back.

For the first time tonight, Harry looks at him like he’s actually seeing him. Even from here, Louis can see that his pupils are dilated and he wonders how much Harry’s had to drink. Relatively, the party is still in the early stages but Louis’ certainly managed to have his fair share of alcohol. And Harry’s always been good for drinking with, has always matched Louis shot for shot when they’ve been out together, with all the boys. It’s usually the best part of the night to Louis. He loves seeing how little it takes until Harry’s whole body is flush with it, until it’s everything Louis can do just to keep his hands to himself, to hug Harry from behind just so he won’t touch him anywhere else, hiding his grin in his back and breathing him in while he talks too loud and laughs too wildly.

Harry looks like he could use a hug right now, to be honest, but Louis will be fucked if that’s what’s happening.

Part of him wishes that Harry would just know it already, could just see it. The other part of him, the bigger part, is glad that Harry doesn’t know. Louis' thrilled that he’s the one that gets to explain it to him, to throw it at his skin like daggers.

Harry rakes a hand through his hair and plops back down on the bed.

Louis digs his nails into the desk.

“You did it to me,” he says again, and he’s so angry the words nearly claw at his throat on the way out. “You didn’t give a shit about what was fair when it came to me.”

“It’s not like you gave me a reason to,” Harry says, expression grim, and it’s so easy, falling into this conversation, because of course they’re on the same page. Even now.

Louis’ taken aback by that. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said. What reason did I have to give a shit about you? You certainly didn’t give me one.” Louis had almost forgotten that Harry does this, enunciates when he’s mad, controlling his voice in a way that he doesn’t normally. Harry leans back on his palms like he doesn’t need his hands for this, spreading his long legs as casual as anything.

Louis’ pulse jumps in his neck. “Did you _need_ a reason?”

Sharp, Harry laughs and rolls his eyes. “What was I supposed to do? Keep waiting until you decided to grow some balls—”

“Oh, fuck off! Like you even waited, you didn't—you just—”

“I heard what you were saying, even when you weren’t saying it,” Harry cuts him off, voice rigid. “That night, at the hotel, you didn’t need to say anything. I could tell.”

For a second, Louis feels panic lick down his spine. He has no idea what conversation they’re having. It’s always like this with Harry, easy one second then damn near impossible the next. He hates that Harry can bring him to this, always brings him here, making him feel like an idiot. 

He flashes back to how he had been that night. He hadn't looked at Harry, not directly, not said anything at all, just reached back and lined his dick up until it was all he could do to sink down on it, biting his lip and still refusing to look at Harry because he knew the second he did, the minute their eyes connected, he would lose all the strength he needed to keep going.

“That,” Louis starts, mouth dry, “that night was—”

“That night was you, Louis, that night was _you_ not giving a shit about _me_.” Harry’s anger, like the rest of him, is so calm and easy. Louis wants to punch him.

That was the opposite of what that night had been.

Louis had left Starbucks and it had felt like walking through fog in the hotel, through the lobby and running up the stairs, like he was going to burst into flames, down the hall and into their room where Harry was just standing there.

It was the quietest fuck they’d ever had; Louis had been so livid that even his moans came out sounding angry. At the time, he hadn’t wanted to say anything. He’d wanted Harry to know, to feel it in the way he sat all the way down on his cock on the first try, to feel it in the way he’d scratched at his chest, his stomach; he’d wanted Harry to pull it out of him, but Harry hadn’t done that. Harry had just lain there and thrust his cock up and wrapped his hand around where Louis was wet at the tip and jacked him rough as anything.

But that was the farthest thing from Louis not giving a shit about Harry.

That was Louis caring too much about Harry and finally, _finally_ , feeling how much that hurt.

 

* * *

 

Soon after that night, there’d been Madison Square Garden and they’d all had more important things to think about.

Louis had never seen anything like it in his entire life. There had been a cloak of fear over the whole thing even as they were getting ready backstage, even as he heard his own voice leading their pre-show chant; the fear that he would hop on stage and the crowd wouldn’t be there, or someone would sneak up on them, scream “gotcha!” and wake him up from this dream. But when they had run on stage, the crowd had been right there, alive, excited, nothing but millions of specks of lights as far as his eye could see. Louis had tried to drink it all in, every second of it, but it was impossible. He found it hitting him at random moments, when he’d just finish a solo or they’d do a twitter question that made him laugh; how this was his life now, and it was still a dream, but it wasn’t. For the first time in his life he’d felt like he’d done it, like he’d made it. He had his boys beside him, confetti falling in his hair, and he was taking the final bow in the most famous venue in the world.

During the show, he’d done his best to skirt Harry.

They still hadn’t talked about it, was the thing, but there’d been no time. Louis had made sure of that. And still, everything was in order with Taylor, ready to go just as planned.

Backstage before the show, Louis had told himself, frantically, that he could do this and that there was nothing to be afraid of. But nothing had prepared him for the way Harry had looked that night. Buttoned to the neck, proper, melted into his jeans, coming off all boyish but acting for all the world like he was older than his eighteen years. All Louis had wanted to do was rip the clothes right off him. On stage, Harry was a firecracker. The performance came so naturally to him and every time there was a lull in the beat, Louis heard Harry’s voice and it seeped into him like a drug. He was beautiful. Hair sweaty and matted, face bright and alive, it had taken everything Louis had not to touch him, not to pull him off stage and hide him, so no one would see him, so no one would have that but him.

He was selfish, was his problem. And he’d known it, but that didn’t make it any easier when, after the show, he’d had to laugh and joke to pretend that he hadn’t heard it, that it didn’t slice his heart right open, when Harry had said, mumbling to Niall, “I’m meeting Taylor, I’ve got—for the after party.”

Louis had gotten drunk faster than he ever had in his life and he’d gone to the party and had a miserable time and barely said a word to anyone.

He’d stood by the punch bowl and watched them and he knew it was wrong, to resent Taylor the way he did. From what he knew, she was lovely. He just didn’t feel like getting to know her more. Especially not since she was looking at Harry like that, the lights catching on the red of her lips so he could see how close she’d get to Harry’s ear when she whispered.

It was supposed to be one of the best nights of his life but instead he was watching Harry put his hands on someone else, open his mouth to laugh for someone else. So he had left the party without telling anyone, had lain awake until four in the morning, and when Harry still wasn’t back in their room he’d shut his eyes and told himself it didn’t matter.

 

* * *

 

“That’s not what the fuck that was,” Louis says now, relieved to hear that his voice doesn’t crack.

Harry just rolls his eyes again. “That's a lot what it looked like to me, mate. From my spot on the floor. Naked. Where you left me, like you didn’t give a shit. So what was it then?”

Louis thumps his shoulders back into the wall, the alcohol enabling him, wanting him to be physical. And suddenly that question is too difficult to answer. So he says the simplest, purest thing he can think of.

“Why’d you do it?”

Harry wasn’t expecting that, obvious in the way his eyes blaze. He runs a hand through his hair and laughs, but it's humorless.  

“You know what I’m talking about,” Louis clarifies. “Don’t be thick.”

“What do you mean _why_ ,” Harry asks, voice rising. “You know why. I didn’t have a choice.”

Louis knew that was coming. He wouldn’t be Harry if he hadn’t said it. “Yes,” Louis hisses, can’t stress it enough, “you did. You _did_ , Harry. You always have a choice, but yours is never ‘no’.”

“Louis, I didn’t. You  _know_ I didn’t, why’re you—”

“Because you did, Harry! You always do! There’s always an option but you’re just too fucking—”

“The other option,” Harry snarls, “was letting everyone down.”

And this, this is what Louis hates most of all, the fact that there are people, imaginary, irrelevant people, who Harry believes he could disappoint. Who Harry thinks it’s easier to try and please than to do something, anything, for himself.

“Who the fuck is everyone!” Louis says, shouting now, and he’s glad the party’s still going on strong so their voices won’t travel. Zayn would never forgive them.

Harry stutters and starts about four different sentences. “The—our _people_ , I don’t know! The team and the boys and the crew—”

A laugh bubbles up in Louis’ throat before he can help it. “The bloody _crew_?” he says, exasperated. Trust Harry to want to please everyone, the blades of grass under his boots as well, probably. “Since when do they get a say in our personal lives! Jesus, Harry, listen to yourself!”

Harry pulls at chunks of his hair, looking slightly wild in the face, and Louis knows he’s difficult to argue with but he doesn’t care. He can’t care, not when this is the most attention Harry’s given him in so very long.

“Well not them but like, everyone else. I don’t know! I couldn’t say no, they’d had it all worked out and she was for it and it’s not like there was anything holding me back—”

“There wasn’t?” Louis nearly screeches.

Harry stares at him for a minute, tilting his head to the side. Either that was what he was waiting for or he decided that he didn’t like the way the conversation was going, so he says, scoffing and barking out a laugh, “You can’t mean yourself…”

The way he says it couldn't have hurt anymore if he’d tried.

And there it is again, that sinking feeling in the pit of Louis’ stomach, like he has no idea what conversation they’re having. He’s never been good at talking like this and he curses Harry for it, for his ease with laying himself bare like it costs him nothing, curses himself for feeling like it costs him everything.

But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t go on with it. “Yes, me,” he says, emphasizing, the back of his neck prickling. “You should have asked me.”

Harry’s eyes go wide. “I should have _asked you_?” and he stands up now, slightly unsteady on his feet but focused. “I don’t need your bloody permission.”

Louis was angry before but his rage now, it feels like every breath he takes only fuels it more, feels like it’s going to burst from every pore on his skin.

“Yes, you do,” and everything he’s saying feels like the right thing but the wrong thing at the same time, not enough, but there’s so much to say, so many sentences running through his head that he can’t pull them down to speak them fast enough.

“No, I don’t,” Harry says, adamant.

“Yes, you do,” Louis grits out, ignoring how childish he sounds.

“Look, Louis, you made it clear that night that I shouldn’t—that I shouldn’t need you,” Harry says, voice faltering slightly, and Louis stares straight at him. “That you couldn’t do this.” 

Louis opens his mouth but he can't speak.  

He flashes back, again, to that night and he can see himself, flushed all the way down his chest, working Harry’s cock like it’s his job. Harry had left the window open so it was cold, Louis had known at the time that it was supposed to be cold, but he couldn’t feel it, not with the way it felt like he was shedding all of his skin. A breeze had ruffled the curtains, flapping them into the room, and it had been the only sound he noticed until he had breathed out, tightening his fingers around Harry’s nipples, “I can’t do this.” It had been the only thing in his head, playing on a loop again and again, until he couldn't hear anything else.

It was a breath, that’s all it had been, and looking at Harry now Louis can’t believe he’d actually said it out loud.

He sinks forward, elbows to his knees, and rubs his hands across his face. When he looks up Harry is still standing in front of him and he looks hurt, like he’s reliving that night too.

“Harry,” Louis says, on a breath, “I didn’t…that wasn’t...that’s not what I meant.” Because, drunk or not, he can see the context of it now, can see how saying that then leaving, with no explanation, might not have been the wisest thing to do.

“Well what did you mean,” Harry snaps. “Because I tried to get you to tell me and you wouldn’t.

And he had, of course he had. Harry had been desperate, had followed Louis out of the room as soon as he’d picked himself off the floor and thrown on some clothes. But it had felt like Louis was floating, down the hall and back to his own room, the room he hadn’t even intended to use, and his chest was so tight he’d had to steady himself against the wall, forcing himself to take breaths. He’d heard Harry bounding down the hall and calling his name but it’d sounded like he was underwater. Louis hadn’t turned around and he’d fallen into his room and he’d clicked the door shut.

The next day, Harry had almost undone all of his work the night before, all the energy it had taken just to convince himself to roll out of bed, when he’d materialized beside him at the tea kettle and gently pressed his elbow, asking him on a whisper what was wrong.

Louis had spun around so fast he almost dropped his tea and the second he saw Harry’s face he’d nearly lost it. It was obvious he hadn’t slept, or hadn’t slept well; the skin around his eyes was red and looked dry and Louis could still see the sleepiness in the slack of his mouth, in the slower than normal blink of his eyes.

But he’d done it, somehow, had laughed big and long, said, “All good, Harold!” and walked away from him, clutching the mug in his hand and ignoring how it burned.

It was rude and childish and unfair, all things Louis knew, but still things that came easier to him than doing what he should’ve done. 

So now, he takes a deep breath, hears it rattling in his ribcage, and looks at Harry.

“I meant that I couldn't do this.”

Harry had been looking at him expectantly but now he sighs and tosses his head back, closing his eyes. And fuck, that hadn’t come out right, it never does, so Louis scrambles to correct himself. He wishes he wasn't still half drunk.

“No, no, Harry. I meant…I couldn't do _this_. I can't,” he says, desperately gesturing between them. “Not with her there.”

Harry opens his eyes and pulls his head back forward, looking at him so directly that Louis can see the dark green of his eyes.

“What’s Taylor got to do with it?”

And trust him to actually say her name, to practically invite her into the room. Louis gapes. “What—she’s got everything to do with it.”

“How?” Harry tilts his head, puzzled.

" _How?_  Harry! You’re dating her!”

“Yeah, but what’s that got to do with us?” He’s biting his lip and turns his head like he’s distracted by the noise coming from downstairs; was that—Louis hears it too—was that glass shattering? Christ.

Somehow, Louis forgot that this was part and parcel for speaking with Harry, forgot that he’d have to explain in the clearest words possible, no mincing anything, no saying just whatever and hoping for the best. And fuck Harry for that, for making him have to work.

Louis sighs, wanting to scream instead, and his anger’s threatening to rise up again. “You can’t be dating her and fucking me, Harry.”

Harry looks surprised at that, like he really wasn’t expecting it, but his expression hardens. “I’m not fucking you though…”

“Exactly." 

Harry's pinching at his mouth. “But that’s _because_ you don’t want me to fuck you.”

Louis screams with his mouth closed so it just rolls, high in his throat. “What--no! I do, I do—that’s—that’s why I did what I did.”

“And what was it that you did?” Harry sounds like a fucking psychiatrist, tilting his head and looking genuinely curious, smug, and earnest all at once.  

Louis does yell this time, and that’s fine, because the music has picked up again. “In that meeting, I couldn’t—there was nothing I could say, and I knew that—I _knew_ that you were going to say yes. You always say yes. I couldn’t stand it, so I found you and I brought up something stupid and then I did something stupid and then I left.” He’s heaving, deep breaths that fill his lungs and help to steady him.

Harry’s still staring at him, still just standing there. When he speaks, it sounds odd in contrast to Louis’ shouting. “Louis,” he starts, eyes scrunching up. “I said yes to that, yeah. But I wasn’t saying no to you. Is that-- is that what this is about?”

The beat drops then, suddenly and so deep that it rumbles through the desk and Louis can feel it under his thighs.

“Yes, you were,” he presses, heart rate climbing in time with the rhythm. “But it doesn’t matter.” He sighs and it rattles out of him, whispy and thin, as he looks away.

Harry walks forward. The music seems louder, or maybe they’re just quieter. Harry's necklaces are right there so Louis could snatch them, grabbing them like he used to when he wanted a kiss or just wanted to tug on Harry’s neck a little, loving the little prints that would be there later when he’d wash his hair in the shower.

“How could you think that?” Harry asks, voice deep and rumbling out of his chest.

Louis swallows and tries to look away, look anywhere else, because he's never been good about people right in his face when he’s feeling so emotional. But it’s Harry, he tells himself. And Harry’s not people.

“Dunno,” Louis responds, sighing out. “We never talked about, like, us. I didn’t know if we were—if _you_ were—”

“What, serious?” Harry asks, incredulous.

Louis licks his lips and wipes his sweaty palms on his knees. If it’s possible to die from fear, someone should probably get his coffin ready. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t know, we never talked about what we were doing, it was always just…there.”

And they hadn’t; they hadn’t needed to, or so Louis thought. Ever since he had kissed Harry, on the dirty floor beside their X Factor bunk, they had just gone for it without looking back. Everything was so easy, so simple, almost like it had already been carved out for them, like life had already found a way to put them together and keep them together. But it was risky. After a while they’d had to learn how to keep a low profile but even then it was good.  Harry came home to Louis and Louis came home to Harry and everybody knew it.

They fought, but even that was easy, in a way. Louis knew just what to say to hurt Harry and Harry knew just what to do to infuriate him back but they both knew how to kiss it better and they always did.

Louis tries not to focus on the fact that that’s not what’s happening here.

It swells up in him, and now that he’s started he can’t stop. “We never talked about any of it. Then she…Taylor just came along and you said yes, like I knew you would, and then MSG happened and you, you stayed with her and—Harry.” Louis looks straight at him and it feels like his heart is breaking in two. “Harry,” he says again, swallowing, but he doesn’t know how to finish it.

Harry runs his hands across his face and turns his body to the window. He stares out of it for a few seconds and the only sound in the room is the thrumming music, some people laughing downstairs. When Harry turns his face back, Louis’ not sure if he’s ever seen him look so serious. He looks older, all of a sudden, not quite like the boy he met but not unlike him, either, just different. It scares him, he realizes, and he never wants to look at Harry again and feel like he can’t recognize him.

“Louis. I said yes because I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

It feels like someone’s dumped cold water right on his head. He inhales, lets it fill his lungs. “Why would you think that?”

Harry laughs, short and dark. “Because…what you and I have, it isn’t—it’s not negotiable. I trust it to be there. I trust—I trusted _you_ to be there.”

Louis ignores that, that dig that makes it sound even more like this is all his fault. His anger is at the surface again so he bites back, “And I trusted _you_ not to do some bullshit where you date someone else right in front of me.”

Harry's eyes grow wide. “Did you even listen? During the meeting?”

Of course Louis hadn’t listened; he hadn’t needed to. All he’d heard was “Harry” and “Taylor Swift” and “a few weeks, a few months, tops” and all the life in him had shriveled up and died.

“Of course I listened,” he snaps.  

And Harry’s a right bastard so of course he pulls a face and rolls his eyes, again, saying, “No, you didn't. If you had we wouldn't be in this mess.”

“We’re not ‘in a mess,’” Louis says, sloppily curling his fingers in air quotes, and he’ll be fucked if he’s letting this conversation get away from him once again.

“Well what do you call it, then?”

“A conversation,” Louis says, as calm as he can manage.

Harry makes a sound like he’s choked. He really runs his hands through his hair this time and Louis can see where he grips the strands before letting go. He turns on his heel and steps away from Louis, walks back to the bed but stops, like he can’t be bothered with sitting on it, and starts pacing instead. “This is not a fucking conversation. This is you, being an idiot still.”

And this, this is surer ground, ground Louis has practically paved the way for by scratch, has hurled insults at people for as long as he can remember. Joy blossoms in his chest. “I’m the idiot? Don’t be a twat, Harry, just because you wanted in one. If we’re in a mess, it’s because you damn well put us here.”

Like it physically pains him to do so, Harry laughs and whirls around. “But _you_ did! Louis, can’t you see that? We’re here because of you. My shit is here,” he gestures, all around the room, “and your shit is _there_ ,” he strides to the door and opens it so the sound floods through even louder, tossing his arm out in the direction of the guestroom, “because of  _you_.” He slams the door shut and the sound rushes out of the room.

“It isn’t,” Louis says, and he’s so mad he can barely get the words past his gritted teeth, the alcohol only making him angrier, making him mean it more. “I was with you, Harry, and you left me.”

“Oh, will you quit that! I didn’t bloody leave you!” Harry shouts.

Simultaneously, Louis hates and loves that Harry’s shouting at him because it means that he gets to shout right back, but do it better, and do it louder.

“You _did_. You didn’t fight it, you didn’t try to change their minds, you just sat there. Around that stupid table with those _fucking_ idiots, you’d already left me.”

“Fuck’s sake!” Harry throws his arms up and spins around again, until he’s even closer to Louis. “If you would have talked to me, if you would have just-- just pulled your head out of your ass for one motherfucking second, you would know.”

Harry never swears like this, Louis notices, and it startles him but not enough to stop shouting in his face. “Know what, Harry? That it was that easy for you, that you didn’t even have to think about it? That what we had wasn’t ‘a big deal’,” he air quotes again and it feels childish, spiteful, but he doesn’t care. Not when it feels like the past few weeks have been leading right up to this moment. “You made your choice—”

“Louis,” Harry’s voice is ridiculously low and his eyes have managed to get even darker.

“You chose her, like it didn’t even matter, you didn’t even ask me what I thought before you just—”

Harry nearly growls. “Louis.”

But Louis can’t stop, feels like his lungs will collapse if he doesn’t get it out right this second, get it out before it kills him. “But I can’t do this. I can’t do this anymore, Harry. You can’t just toss me aside like that and give me up, like I wouldn’t fight for you, like I wouldn’t fucking—fucking burn London to the ground for you—”

And Harry stops moving forward, stops trying to interrupt. He’s so close Louis could reach out and punch him. He wills his hand to stay by his side even as his knuckles curl up into a fist. Harry’s whole body looks rigid, like a statue, but it’s definitely his voice when he says, “I don’t know what you’re saying. Louis—”

“I fucking hate the thought of you with anyone else,” Louis says, and it feels like he’s going to vomit.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to snatch them back. It’s everything he wanted to say, everything he felt ever since he heard her name, ever since he saw Harry’s face when he’d looked at her; and it didn’t have to be her, god knows it could’ve been anyone else, anyone on the planet, and Louis still would’ve wanted to destroy them.  

Harry looks at him like he’s never seen him before.

Louis takes a deep breath until it feels like most of the anger is ghosted out of him. He can’t be angry about this, not anymore.

“Harry, what you and I—what we—what we _have_ , I can’t just let it go. I can’t just let you go. And I’m not used to this, or good with this…” he trails off, looking away from Harry because suddenly it’s too intense.

But in a flash, Harry’s right in front of him, gripping his knees and turning his head so he can follow his eyes, until Louis’ forced to look at him. The pressure of his hands on his legs makes Louis weak, makes him almost stupid with want, in spite of everything.  

The music’s been such a constant that Louis can feel his heart beat in time with it. He wonders if Harry can feel his legs shaking, his knees threatening to knock together.

“Keep going,” Harry says, and his voice is so much softer.

Louis swallows and looks at him and tries to forget what it felt like to kiss him. “I can’t just be friends with you. I don’t know how to do that.” Suddenly, a laugh bubbles out of him and even that sounds hurt. “I can’t even try.”

For the first time tonight, for the first time in what feels like years, Harry smiles at him, slow and crooked and so familiar. “You don’t have to.”

Louis rolls his eyes, not in the mood to be coddled, and suddenly can’t take Harry touching him at all if it means they’ve got to do it like this. “Haz,” he starts, clucking his tongue to show he doesn’t need this, doesn’t need Harry’s pity.

“No,” Harry says, voice strong, and he squeezes Louis’ knees even harder. “You don’t have to because you _don’t_ have to. I broke it off with her.”

Louis’ heart stops and his face falls. “What."

Harry takes his hands back and runs them through his hair, pushing his fringe off his forehead where it’s sticky. But he doesn’t move away. 

“When you saw me outside,” Harry says, and Louis’ brain cuts back to standing in the kitchen and how angry he had felt, how betrayed, when he’d noticed Harry on the phone and it had been her. “Taylor called so I had to step out and take it. We’d talked about it for a while and it wasn’t…it just wasn’t working out. She was cool about it, like. But she had to check with her team first.” He drops his arms by his side. “We were going over the logistics of it. I couldn’t do it, Louis.”

Harry takes a deep breath. “It was just publicity,” he continues steadily, like he’s had to explain it a million times already. “Or like, at first it was. But then you acted like you didn't wanna-- wanna be with me, so. I dunno. If you would have just talked to me, Christ.” He rubs at his temples. “You never even—Louis, you hit the ground running and you didn’t stop. You assumed—you seriously thought—god, Lou,” he says, breaking off and sighing.

Louis feels his cheeks flame and swears under his breath, cursing all the gods he knows for the fact that he still cannot do this right. He feels so stupid. So goddamn stupid. But that’s still not—

“But—why…why now?” He asks, and he cringes at how small his voice sounds.

“Because. I dunno. She was sweet, and lovely, and it was easy to be with her. But I couldn’t like...I couldn’t get into it. I couldn't make it realistic. And I tried, but…” he’s almost whispering and if Louis wasn’t right in front of him he’d probably miss it. “It was starting to feel like more trouble than it was worth." He grins again. "Then there’s the fact that she isn’t you, so...”

Louis stares at him, jaw slack. This whole time he had made himself think—god, he had made _Harry_ think—“I can’t believe I was such an idiot,” he says, like a revelation.

Harry stares at him for a second then laughs. It’s easy this time, comes out sounding just like him, and he puts his hands back on Louis’ knees. “Yes, you can. And so can I." He shrugs. "But I've been pretty stupid too.”

Louis’ never particularly liked the idea of someone knowing him better than he knows himself, but Harry isn’t someone. Harry is Harry.

For all the ways that anger has led Louis here, fear has been right there too, hot on its heels, and it returns now so quickly as he looks at Harry.

Harry, who he would fight for even though he’s not used to fighting for anyone.

Louis takes both his hands and, tentatively, places them on top of Harry’s over his knees. Harry’s hands are warm and his skin is soft, so Louis digs his nails in to anchor them there. He wants to say so many things, wants to ask Harry why he didn’t just _make_ him listen, why he didn’t just punch him in the damn face. But Harry didn’t get them in this mess.   

“Haz,” Louis starts, but Harry’s already smiling, brighter than the sun, and leaning forwards, so slowly but so sure. Louis wants to meet him halfway but even more he wants him to stop stealing his moments, to stop getting there miles ahead of him. So he pulls him in by the wrist, knocking him off balance. He leans in until their foreheads are pressed to each other and he swallows his fear and whispers, “I love you,” feeling like it’s the first time he’s ever said it in his life, and mashes their lips together before Harry can say anything back.

 

* * *

 

Sliding into Harry’s mouth again, being able to lick right into it, is enough to stutter Louis' heart in his chest.

He could smack himself for being such a fuck-up if he wasn’t so busy trying to crawl into Harry’s skin. Harry’s mouth is just as lush as ever, warm and open, so Louis relaxes his jaw and breathes into it. He feels mad with it, the need to get all traces of himself back on Harry’s skin so it’s only his scent and his feel and his touch that Harry knows, so he won’t ever be able to remember anybody else’s. He scrabbles at his neck, tugging at his collar to pull him forward even more, and groans when Harry scrapes his teeth along his bottom lip. He wants Harry all over him, so badly that he can’t even think straight. And Harry’s compliant, like he always is, opening his mouth right back and meeting Louis’ tongue for all he’s worth. His hands are still on Louis’ knees and they’re squeezing hard enough to hurt, hard enough to bruise, but Louis wants that so much he moans without being able to help it.

Quickly, he pulls back and cups Harry’s face in his hands, knowing that he has to say it before he loses the nerve.

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispers. The words taste foreign but he’s never meant them more, so he presses the pads of his fingers into Harry’s face, brushing his fingers across his cheekbones. “I’m so sorry,” he says again, and watches Harry’s face carefully.  

Harry blinks and brings his hands up to Louis’ face where he squishes his cheeks up, so Louis’ mouth parts and folds like a fish. Harry's lips are just starting to plump, only slightly shiny, but his smile is so stunning as he pinches at Louis’ cheeks; Louis’ never seen anything more wonderful in his life. “I know,” Harry whispers back. He pushes the hair back off Louis’ forehead and Louis closes his eyes, just as he feels the firm pressure of Harry's lips on his again. 

Harry pushes forward, slotting his body between Louis’ spread legs and the desk, but the edge of the desk is in the way so he keeps bumping into it. He’s making noises, little frustrated grunts that make Louis laugh a little. He wants to say something about it, something to rile Harry up even more, but before he can he ends up yelping because, without warning, Harry tugs him forward by the waist until he’s resting right at the edge of the desk. At this height, Louis can wrap his legs easily around Harry’s waist so he does, and his breath catches when their hips touch.

Harry breaks apart and tosses the hair out of his eyes, looking down at where they’re touching, where his hands on Louis' hips are holding him place.

“D’you wish it was Danny behind you,” he asks, voice husky already, completely out of the blue. The memory of that moment cuts into Louis’ focus immediately. He imagines what he must have looked like to Harry, with Danny all but draped over him. Harry’s doing a good job of trying to hide it, but Louis can hear the jealousy in his voice and he wonders if he sounded the same, if it was as evident all over his face, every time he had seen Harry with Taylor.

Now, Louis squeezes his calves tight around Harry’s waist until he’s pressed even closer to him and he kisses down his jaw, working his way slowly, so he can breathe him in, over to his ear. He waits until his breath catch up with his heart rate and he asks, voice low, “Did you like it?” rolling his hips forward.

“What do you think,” Harry hisses back quickly, running his hand across Louis’ forehead and tilting his head back so he can see his eyes. Louis swallows and his whole throat jerks with it, the angle of his head making it difficult to do it properly, and he smirks, feels himself falling right back into this, pushing all of Harry’s buttons so effortlessly that he barely has to think about it.

“I think,” he croaks out, dragging his fingers, slowly, down the buttons on Harry’s shirt, “that you liked it.” He curls his tongue around the words and taps his index finger right at the button at the top of Harry’s jeans.  

Quick as anything, Harry groans and pulls him forward again by the hips, so fast that he’s forced to unwrap his legs and stand on his feet, trapped between Harry and the desk. The metal digs into his back but he couldn’t care less, not when Harry’s pressed against him and he can feel where his dick’s starting to fill out.

Panting, he snakes a hand between them, pushing back for a second into Harry’s hands that have moved down to palm his ass, and grips around Harry’s dick as best he can, through his jeans. He leans forward, moaning when he can feel the fat head of it, and bites at Harry’s neck, tugging at the delicate skin there. He noses around to his ear and whispers, as harsh as he can, “I think it got you hard.”

Harry laughs, a bright, unexpected sound, and thrusts his hips forward hard enough to knock Louis and the desk into the wall.

“That was you,” Harry breathes out, grinning crookedly. He steps back so he can bend slightly and slot his thigh right between Louis’ legs, just like he had on the dance floor. Louis groans and curls into it immediately, straddling it like he doesn’t know how he’s ever lived without it. His cock’s getting hard, he can feel it making his briefs tight, and he braces his hands on Harry’s shoulders so he can slide on his thigh like he wants.

“That was me?” he asks, hooding his eyes and tilting his head so he can look up at him, trying not to imagine a world where Harry would say the same to someone else.  

Harry knocks his thigh up so fast, and so smooth, across Louis’ dick that Louis has to groan again, can’t help it falling out of him. Leaning down and curling his body tight around him, Harry teethes at his neck, right under his jaw where anyone could see, where he’s obviously going to bruise, but Louis can’t say anything to stop him, doesn’t want to, just holds him in place by the nape of his neck. After a second, Harry pulls back and looks him right in the eye. His cheeks are flushed and for all his newfound grown-up swagger, Louis notes, is _thrilled_ to see, he still gets pink just like a boy.

Harry tugs Louis even higher up his thigh, the muscles in his arms flexing through the cotton of his shirt with the effort. “It’s always fucking you.”

Arousal snaps through Louis like a whip. He surges up and kisses Harry, open-mouthed, as sloppy and uncoordinated as he can.

“Yeah,” Louis whines, shivering because of how fast Harry keeps moving his hands, from his waist, to his ass, to his neck, pressing into each spot like he needs to claim it. “It’s always fucking me.”

And it always will be, Louis thinks, not Taylor or anybody else; just him, for as long as he’s got something to say about it.  

Harry shakes his head, laughing again, and it’s so obvious that he knows Louis inside out, knows every single trick that he could possibly pull, and Louis couldn’t love him any more if he tried. Sweat is dripping from Harry’s forehead so Louis’ hand slides through it every time he pulls one of his curls, or cups his cheek to hold his mouth still. When he presses their mouths together, lining their chests up, the sweat makes it taste sour but no less sweet.  

Suddenly, there’s a noise right outside the door in the hall: a bang, and a stampede, like dozens of people running and stumbling over each other at once.

“They looking for us, you think?” Harry asks, voice breaking when Louis digs his nails into the back of his neck.

Louis laughs, feeling silly, feeling reckless. “I don’t—,” care, is what he thinks, but Harry thrusts forward again, hard, so the desk bangs into the wall. Louis’ mouth drops open and he makes noise at that, has to, the way Harry’s looking at him like he’d fuck him through the wall if he could. His cock twitches and he feels his pleasure seep right out of him.

Wanting to give as good as he gets, Louis hoods his eyes and leans back with his weight on his palms. He cants his hips and concentrates as much as he can, constricting his abs and rolling forward, rolling his crotch right into Harry's.

“Well you’d better pick up the pace, then. Can't have them finding us,” he says, smirking and blinking the sweat out of his eyes. Harry’s watching his abs move under the thin material of his t-shirt and Louis can feel himself preening, working his muscles harder, because the look on Harry’s face makes him want to be the best he’s ever had.  

“Lou,” Harry says, sounding amazed, and he kisses him. It’s slower than Louis was expecting, Harry trying to match the pace of Louis’ hips, groaning every time he manages to brush their cocks together. But for all that it’s slow it’s no less filthy than before, Harry kissing him like he’d climb into his mouth if he could, and Louis is so hard he’s surprised he hasn’t split right through his jeans. He feels wanton with it, resting his weight in his palms on the desk, turning his head lazily into the kiss, licking his way across Harry’s bottom lip. Harry whimpers every time he does it and it’s so much, so hot to hear him do it, that Louis thinks he’ll die from sheer arousal.

He pulls his head back and their saliva makes it smack. “Get your clothes off,” he rasps, leaning back. But Harry’s barely letting him talk, still kissing him through it, so Louis giggles and squirms away. Harry doesn’t listen. He waits until Louis’ pulling his own shirt over his head then zeros in on his neck again, licking and sucking all the skin that’s exposed. It feels amazing, so Louis curls his fists into Harry’s shirt and pulls him in closer, still rocking down into his hips.

Harry’s hands are so big that Louis wants to cry out at how good they feel, at how much he’s missed them, and the touch of them alone is enough to make him shake. Harry rakes them down his chest and heads straight for his nipples, pinching both at the same time.  

“Harder,” Louis whines, high in his throat and tilting his head back. “Do it—do it again.”

Harry does, pinching them at the same time he bites at Louis’ pulse and frankly, Louis’ surprised he still has one. His hips can’t stop moving, sliding his dick forward on the thickest part of Harry’s thigh. He can hear the noises he’s making but they don’t sound human so he doesn’t worry about them. Harry just keeps pinching, keeps biting, and keeps his leg there so steadily, so strong, that Louis feels like he’s going to pass out.

He’s about to say something to get Harry to stop teasing, will scold if he has to, but before he can Harry pulls away from him completely.

It’s dark in the room now, the sun having fully set, so Louis can barely see him. And they can't have that. He leans over and stretches across the desk to flick the light on there. Even that’s dim, cloaking the room in a soft glow, but it lets him see enough to follow the thick shape Harry’s dick cuts into his denims. His mouth waters when he sees it because he did that; Harry is hard because of _him_ , not anybody bloody else. His hips pump forward into nothing because Harry’s still too far away. Harry’s mouth is slick, shiny and red, but when his voice comes out it sounds rough and cracked at the edges.

“Turn around,” he says.

Louis focuses on taking a breath, then another, and smirks. “Why,” he asks, scrunching his eyebrows.

But Harry just stares at him and doesn’t answer. Louis swallows and turns around, biting his lip, and makes sure to spread his legs even farther apart as he bends over slightly. 

He knows what he looks like— he wore these jeans for a reason, after all, and he’s not sure what Harry wants but he knows he’s going to give it to him. Without a doubt, he’s absolutely going to give it to him.

He stands like that for a minute, just breathing and staring at the wall, at the colossal piece of modern art that Harry had insisted they needed when they’d moved in. The painting had cost nearly an arm and a leg but Harry hadn’t cared. Louis’ not sure if he’s ever looked at it properly before now, but he remembers teasing Harry for it when it had been delivered, pretending to be disgusted at the pure glee that had been on Harry’s face, pretending like it pained him to go and find the nails to help him mount it to the wall.

They’d been so happy that day and thinking about it, the random domesticity of it, makes Louis smile so he ducks his head into the crook of his arm.

“What’re you thinking about?” Harry asks, and his voice comes from right by Louis' ear. He’s ghosting a hand down his back, straight down his spine, and he’s moving so slowly that Louis’ skin goosebumps.

“Nothing,” he responds, arching his back, curving his spine as best he can so Harry will see. “You,” he admits, tossing it over his shoulder.

Harry doesn’t look disheveled at all, looks totally composed. It’s such a contrast to the way Louis feels, untethered, like if the desk wasn’t there he’d fall right over. It’s not fair. Harry’s still in his shirt, all prim and buttoned to the neck, and his jeans, dark but not dark enough to hide the fact that his dick is _right_ there.

And suddenly Louis wants it, needs it, anywhere on him at all, so he turns his head back around and waits for whatever Harry’s going to do.

“You do that a lot?” Harry continues, whispering. Without a sound he flicks his index finger and trails it down the back of Louis’ neck.

Louis feels it like a shock, inhaling and hissing through his teeth. And this—this is definitely not fair, the way his neck bows without his permission, the way his skin prickles like it’s remembering. He rolls his shoulders where they’re tight, lets the weight fall onto his palms where they’re flat on the desk and thinks, absurdly, about the one session of Vinyasa that Harry had connived him into doing. He had sweat and shook the whole time, cutting glances at Harry beside him who had moved like a cat, easy as anything, and when it’d been time to do a headstand Louis had crossed his legs and sat on his butt, frowning down at Harry who was winking at him, upside down.

Now, Louis prays that there’s enough strength in his arms to keep him upright because Harry’s hand has moved down to his waist, right to the top of his jeans where the band of his briefs is sticking out.

Like he knew he would, Harry squeezes his ass, hard, and Louis grins. Harry’s always been obsessed with it, so he pushes back into his hands, lowering down to his elbows so he’ll have more leverage.

“I said, do you do that a lot,” Harry asks again, voice deep enough to make Louis’ pulse race. He lets go of his ass and moves his hands around to Louis’ front so he can unzip his jeans.

Louis’ distracted by it, the pressure of Harry’s big hand on him there, where it hasn’t been in ages, so he has to swallow and focus before he answers. “Yeah, I—” choking, cut off because of course Harry chooses then to grind his palm down. “I always think about you, you know that.” He feels silly saying it. Harry _has_ to bloody know it.

“Mm,” Harry makes a thoughtful noise. “Do I?”

“Well you do now,” Louis cuts back, but it comes out on a breath because Harry’s just managed to get his zip down and is rolling his jeans off.

Harry chuckles. “Yeah. Guess I do now.”

All of this is new, Louis realizes, even as he lifts his shaking legs to step out of his jeans. This whole thing, where Harry is the one peeling off the clothes and giving the directions and doing things like “chuckling.” It wasn’t so long ago that all Louis had had to do was look at Harry right, especially in public, and Harry would flush and come cuddling into him, doing whatever it was that Louis wanted him to do. It was sweet, so sweet to watch Harry react to it. But it was always so much sweeter to have him later, to lay him on expensive sheets in expensive hotels and to open him up on Louis’ fingers, to kiss him through it until he cried with how much he wanted it, and Louis would sink into him and give it to him and try not to explode from how incredible it felt.

But this Harry, this Harry was older. This Harry had filled out, had gotten taller, had gotten bolder; he was still clumsy, still growing into his limbs, but he knew his body better now, knew what it meant to have bigger biceps, a flatter stomach, broader shoulders. Specifically, he knew what it meant concerning Louis and he never seemed to let Louis forget it.

He was still eager to please, still sweeter than Louis could ever deserve, but once, a few months ago on stage, Louis had walked over to whisper to him. He had told Harry that when they got back to the tour bus he wasn’t to shower, that there was no point in getting clean for what Louis was going to do to him. Instead of sinking against him, like he usually did, and instead of blinking up at him, his eyes wide and trusting, Harry had smirked, said no, right against the shell of Louis’ ear, and walked off.

Later, when they got to their room, Louis had swallowed Harry’s cock until it hit the back of his throat, had fallen to his knees almost as soon as they'd shut the door, drunk with the thought that Harry could do this to him, that this dynamic could work for them, too.

It’s not brand new but it’s new enough to affect Louis and he can feel it now, in the throbbing of his cock in his briefs. Which are still on.

“You planning on taking these off?” He asks, grinning over his shoulder. But Harry’s not there, which doesn’t make sense, because Louis can feel the pressure of his hands on his thighs. He twists his body back farther until his eyes hit the floor, where he can only see the top of Harry’s head.

“ _Christ_ ,” Louis breathes out. He tries to slow his heart rate down, tries to wrap his head around the fact of what Harry's about to do to him, but arousal licks like fire in his belly and his dick spurts, seeping warm and sticky into his pants.

They’ve never done it like this, with him still half drunk, his nerves buzzing so he feels everything a million times more, that much more acute. And Harry hasn’t even done anything yet, fuck, but already it feels like Louis' not going to survive this.  

Harry is kneeling on the ground and nuzzling at the back of Louis’ thighs, where the hair is finest. He kisses down around where his briefs cut into his skin, biting what he can reach on his inner thigh, then braces his hands against the desk as he stands up, draping fully over Louis’ back this time so they’re connected everywhere.

“Do you know what I’m about to do to you,” his voice is hoarse and he’s not so much kissing as he is parting his lips along the back of Louis’ neck, faint enough that Louis shivers.

Louis feels like he's falling apart. “Do I— _fuck_ yes, I know,” he says, gritting his teeth and wishing, for all his good feeling towards Harry, that he wasn’t such a prick tease.

“Say it,” Harry breathes out, just as he fits his fingers into the waistband of Louis’ briefs and peels them down. He steps back just enough for Louis to kick them off before he slides right back into him, his crotch snug against Louis’ ass.

 _“Fuck_ you,” Louis snaps out, before he can help it, because for all their flexibility when it comes to this, their personalities haven’t changed. He’s always been jealous of Harry’s ease with it, everything having to do with his body, in fact, and Harry’s never hesitated to say the most sinful things, simple as anything. 

Louis, on the other hand, can never bring himself to do it. Usually, Harry has to work him up to it, carefully and delicately, until he can’t remember how _not_ to beg for it, how not to spread his legs for it. But Louis can tell, with how wet he is already, sighing blissfully when air hits the tip of his dick, that he won’t make it through that. If Harry puts him through that, he’ll probably implode in on himself before he gets so much as a whisper out.  There’s a nagging in the back of his head like maybe he deserves this, like maybe he needs to learn how to open up his goddamn mouth a little.

Harry’s still curled over him, his hips pumping almost involuntarily, so Louis arches and pushes into him, craning his neck back.

He never wants to disappoint Harry again, is the thing.

So he does it. He opens up his goddamn mouth.

“Put your mouth on me, Haz,” he says, and the words tear at his throat even as his cheeks flame. “Open me up—” he takes a deep breath and clenches his eyes shut, telling himself that his fear has no place here. “Get—get your tongue in me, god, I love it, do it, just _do_ it.”

Harry makes a sound between surprise and a groan, like he’s never been more pleased in his entire life. He reaches around to Louis’ chest and, fast, pinches one of his nipples right as he wraps a hand around the front of his throat.

“Lou,” he breathes out, and the way his voice sounds reverent, like he’s so happy, makes Louis want to cry. “Yeah, love. I know you do.”

Without another word, Harry sinks to his knees and slides his hands down to Louis' ass, spreads his cheeks, and blows right on his hole.

It’s a close call, but Louis nearly shouts.

What he does do is throw a hand out to the wall so his knees don’t buckle. The bass is still thudding downstairs and he can feel it in the wall, the vibrations pushing back against his hand as he pushes forward on it.

Maybe it’s the alcohol still coursing through him that makes it feel like sparks are flying along his skin, but when Harry kisses him, sloppily, and right on his hole, it feels like he’s going to break into a million pieces.

Harry’s always been enthusiastic about this. The beat from the music is pumping through Louis’ hand and down his arm but he can hardly feel it because Harry’s mouth is on him like he’s starved for it. His fingernails are sharp so Louis can feel them where they’re cutting into his flesh, into the meat of his ass, and it hurts but it’s the very best kind of pain. Harry slides his tongue along his crack, up to the top and down, all the way to his balls.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Louis says, and he’s whining already, arousal making his toes curl into the carpet. He shuts his eyes to it, like that will help him keep some sanity, but every time Harry gets back to his hole his eyes fly wide open. Harry licks and kisses and scrapes his teeth at him so he can’t even concentrate well enough to keep them squeezed shut.

“ _Harry_ ,” he says, not knowing what else to say, because he can hear him and how he sounds makes his throat seize up. Harry’s not shy about anything, including this, and Louis’ face burns even as he finds himself hoping, maniacally, that the noise downstairs would stop, just for a second, so they could hear what Harry sounds like, how fucking filthy he is. Harry’s so _loud_ , sounds just about as eager as Louis feels, and there’s no reason for him to be so loud, to exaggerate the smack of his lips, but he’s doing it anyway and it drives Louis wild.

It’s quite possible that Louis is already there, that wild point where all of his control slips away from him. He bends at the knee, lifting one leg up as gracefully as he can, and extends it on the desk, knocking into the keyboard in his haste. It’s worth it for how, blessedly, he’s that much more open and Harry can—Harry can—

“Oh god,” Louis says, in a squeak, just as Harry spreads him even wider with his hands and licks into him with the flat of his tongue. He makes noise as he does it, humming so it vibrates around Louis’ rim. Harry’s tongue is so good, just as eager to please as the rest of him, and if Louis felt like moving, if he thought he could, he’d tell Harry to lie back so he could sit on his face.

Harry laps at him and Louis’ eyes cross so he has to close them, can’t bear to focus on anything that isn’t Harry eating him out.

The way his mouth falls open, without him even meaning to, lets him know how just far gone he is and how quickly Harry’s pushing him even further. “You’re so…you’re so good at this, babe. You make me feel so good,” he says, and he hopes Harry hears him so he twists his shoulders around as best he can.

That was a mistake. Louis still can’t see past the crown of Harry’s head, can’t see more than his forehead, but the new angle he’s at gives him a better view of the floor, where Harry’s kneeling. At some point, he must have pulled his zip down and shoved his briefs out of the way because his cock is right there, peeking up and curved and shiny at the tip.

The first thing Louis thinks is “beautiful” and he moans as loud as he can, wishing Harry's cock was in front of him so he could tongue at it. His own dick is leaking now, truly the most stimulation it’s had in weeks, and he’s dying to touch it but if he moves he’ll fall over. His hand on the wall is already sliding and his nails on the desk are digging in but threatening to slip. So he ignores his dick, even as it smears across his belly.

Harry tongues at his rim once more, twice, before he pulls away. Louis whimpers when he feels it but he rests his forehead against the wall so he can catch his breath. But Harry doesn’t give him any time, doesn’t give him a second, before he’s leaning back and blowing on his hole again.

“Look at you,” Harry says, and his voice is wrecked, rough and unsteady. He’s thumbing at Louis’ hole on either side, stretching it as far as it’ll go, and it burns, but it’s so good.  

Panting, Louis gathers the strength enough to pick his head off the wall and plant his leg back on the ground. He steps back a little, bending at the waist, and lays down on the desk as horizontal as he can. He hears Harry inhale, sharp and quick, so he reaches back with both of his arms and pulls himself apart, letting Harry see all of him.

“How do I look?” he asks.  

Harry groans like that’s all the answer he has, nipping at Louis’ fingers where they’re holding his cheeks open, and puts his lips right back on his hole.

He doesn’t mess around this time but points his tongue and swirls it around the rim, pausing every few seconds to lick broad stripes around it, and fits his tongue in as deep as it will go.

Louis can’t say a word, not anymore. It feels like the next noise coming out of him is going to have to be his dying breath. He’s clenching, desperately, around as much of Harry’s tongue as he can but it’s not enough. He tries to cry out and say it, tries to get enough air in his lungs to let Harry know, but he can’t. 

So he squeezes his eyes shut again, claws at the wall, and rides it out as best he can. With both feet on the floor he can roll his hips easier and as soon as he does, Harry moans. Louis' cock leaks, trapped against his stomach and the desk, but he grits his teeth so he won’t try to touch it. He rolls his hips again, just to see what Harry will do, and Harry groans again, louder than before, squeezing behind his thighs.

It doesn’t take long before he’s riding Harry’s face, well and truly, and he wishes that they were on the other side of the room, by the mirror, so he could see, so he could watch Harry’s cock jump where it's still stuck in his jeans, so he could watch his tongue move.

Too soon, the arousal in Louis' gut starts to curl into something faster, more present. Louis' still punching his hips back, his dick sliding wet on the desk, and it feels so good that he could easily do this, could easily stay right here and ride it out, come all over himself, the desk, the wall. But he doesn’t want it without Harry wanting it, too, so with all the effort he has he tosses a hand back and grips what he can of Harry’s hair.

“Har—Ha—Haz, stop, stop, I’ll come,” he wheezes out, ignoring how his body is still rolling into it, chasing the orgasm.

Harry slows down but he doesn’t stop right away. He purses his lips, kissing his hole until Louis has to yank on his hair to get him to stop, and when he finally pulls his head back he’s laughing. Louis rises up on his elbows and hangs his head down, laughing himself, giddy with it. Harry gets to his feet and steps right into Louis, curling both his arms around him and draping himself over his back. He’s panting, right beside Louis’ ear, and the tips of his curls tickle Louis’ neck. Smiling, Louis turns his head.

“Hi,” he says, struggling to breathe with Harry’s weight on him but loving it, loving him.

Harry smiles right back, bright and blinding, and rubs their noses together. “Hiiii,” he says back, drawing it out, and comes even closer so he can kiss him properly.  

At the angle of his body, Louis can’t kiss him how he wants to but he can still taste himself on Harry’s tongue as it presses into him. It's enough to jerk his dick, to make him whimper and go boneless. Harry’s dick is still out, hard and slick, and he slides it up Louis’ crack so fast that Louis gasps. There’s another crash from downstairs, a huge swell in sound, either cheering or someone’s gotten into a fight, Christ, and Harry breaks away.  

He moves to Louis’ neck and wraps a hand around his throat, keeping him in place, and presses with the pads of his fingers. Louis holds his head down and swallows so he can feel Harry’s hand there, the restriction of it, and it’s so good it makes him punch his hips back again. It’s distracting, how much it feels like he can’t breathe and how much he loves it, so when Harry snakes two fingers around to his mouth and says, “Open,” Louis parts his lips and sucks them in without a thought.

It’s only two but Harry’s fingers are long and wide. Louis keens, tonguing at them as hard as he can, anxious to know what Harry's going to do with them.

Harry's kissing down Louis’ back, rubbing the skin at his waist with one hand and keeping his other wrist crooked so Louis can reach his fingers. It feels like he’s speaking, pressing words into Louis’ skin, and Louis can’t hear him over the commotion from downstairs, so he makes an inquisitive sound. Harry pulls his fingers out and immediately he feels empty.

“You used to—do you still,” Harry’s asking, mumbling, taking his hand back and moving it somewhere Louis can’t see. And he can hardly breathe, has no idea what Harry is talking about until he does it, until he swipes his fingers right there, pressing just the very tips into his hole, where he hasn’t touched himself in ages, and it stings so sweet that for the life of him he can’t remember why.

It’s different than Harry’s tongue but it's still going to kill him.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis whines, and it falls out of him like he's broken. He doesn’t care how he sounds though, not feeling anything at all but desperate and anxious and ready to come over everything. “You—you know I haven’t, I, fuck—”

Harry hums, low in his throat. He ghosts his other hand all around Louis’ ass while he keeps the fingers tight right against his rim. “Why.”

There’s no question in it so Louis doesn’t give an answer. He can’t. He can’t tell Harry that he hasn’t touched himself there in weeks because it doesn’t feel right, that it’s not the same, that he can never get himself off as easily, or as quickly, as Harry can with half the effort. He makes a frustrated noise and pumps his hips back, trying to clench on to him, trying to trick him into slipping them in. But Harry is determined and doesn’t do anything but keep his fingers steady and unmoving.

“It’s not the same, is it,” Harry rumbles, stealing the words right from Louis' brain, right as he pushes his fingers in.

Louis’ heart skips three, maybe four beats.

He wants to shout. It feels like his body’s forgotten how to do this, feels like he’s never even done it before, for all that it hurts. Still, his cock spurts beneath him onto the desk and he can feel the stretch where Harry’s in him, the ridges in his knuckles and his fingernails.

Harry doesn’t let him adjust, doesn’t wait at all, and he slides his fingers in a little bit more just as Louis forces himself to take a breath, hissing in air between his teeth.

“Louis,” Harry says, like Louis is some sort of miracle. Louis figures that he is. He suddenly has no idea how Harry’s ever managed to fit anything inside him at all, his fingers impossibly wide like they could never fit in a million years, but he whines in his throat and pushes back from his elbows and tries to relax.

“Relax,” Harry says, kneading at the tension in the top of his spine.

“I’m fucking _trying_ ,” Louis bites out, like it's as easy as all that, gritting his teeth and bracing himself. Harry says something else but Louis doesn’t hear him. He doesn’t say anything, tries to shut his mind off to everything that isn’t Harry’s fingers in him, stretching him slow enough to make him ache with wanting it.

“You…you look fantastic, Lou,” Harry says, hushed, resting his chin over Louis’ shoulder. “All tight around my fingers, trying so hard to get me in.” He must not be able to help himself, Louis thinks, with the way he keeps _talking_ , even though nobody asked him to. His voice is heavy with arousal though and that gets Louis to try a little harder. “You were good on my tongue too, tasted amazing Lou— I couldn’t fucking get enough of you,” and without hesitation he slides his fingers in even further.

It’s too dry, saliva not nearly enough to make this go any easier, but Louis’ legs stretch even farther apart and he gasps, like he can’t believe it.

“Yeah,” Harry says, pulling his fingers out a little just to push them back in. “You’re doing so good, love. So good.” He kisses the side of Louis' face, mouthing up and pressing to his temples, where his pulse must be throbbing nearly out of his skull. Harry's other hand had been resting at his waist but he moves it now, up to Louis’ nipple and flicks it, rolls it around so fast until Louis doesn’t know whether to push into it or pull away from it.

“I missed this, you know,” Harry goes on, thrusting up slightly so Louis can feel the wet head of his cock on his ass. “Missed everything about you.”

Louis barely knows what Harry’s saying, can hardly recognize the words, too strung out on how it feels like he’s going to stretch until he splits. But he’s missed this, too, has missed the way Harry crowds all his spaces, fits himself into the curves of him, so he never has to go anywhere without him. Harry bites at his neck now and Louis sighs. 

“But mostly—,” Harry continues, scratching his nails through the hair on Louis’ chest, “I really missed—,” he rasps out, biting at his earlobe, “the noise you make—,” and Louis feels like he’s floating right out of his skin, Harry’s voice falling on him like a rushing wave, “when I do this.”

Quickly, Harry takes the fingers in his ass and he flips them over, spreading them as far as he can, and curls them.

Louis’ eyes fly open and he makes the noise.

He also shoots a hand out, he has to, for the unexpected way that arousal rockets through every part of him. He knocks into the keyboard, toppling over a bunch of pens so they go skidding across the desk, onto the floor, and makes the noise again, a whine so loud it nearly rips his throat in half, because Harry’s done it again, suddenly won’t stop doing it.

Louis feels drunk all over again, can barely hold his head up, can barely get his mouth to work so he can speak. “H—Harry, _Harry,”_ he says, and it sounds so delicate, so fragile, the starkest contrast to the way it feels like every other part of him is screaming.

Harry’s started grinding into him again, still scissoring the fingers in his ass, and he’s panting hot breaths right into the crook of Louis’ neck.

“Fuck...yeah,” Harry groans. “Is that—is that ok?” He asks, sounding unsure, but turning his wrist so fast that Louis can’t focus on it, can’t concentrate on what he’s doing, can only feel it and try to hold the hell on. And Harry would do this, would pause to ask if this was  _fine_ when Louis can’t remember a time ever feeling more fine, ever feeling finer than he does right now. It’s absurd, he thinks, white-knuckling the desk, that it’s possible he’s had anything up his ass at all, ever, let alone Harry’s gigantic fucking—

Suddenly, he realizes that if he’s going to do this, if he’s literally going to let Harry split in him half, then he’s not going to do it looking at the damn paint splatters on canvas in front of him, modern art or not.  

It takes most of the energy he has left, but he does it, starts pushing back on Harry so he can turn around. Harry makes a noise like he’s confused, like he disapproves, but Louis leans back and scratches the hair at the back of Harry’s neck, managing to croak out, “I need—I need to see you.”

Harry steps back and even that nanosecond of no contact makes Louis’ chest ache. He doesn’t turn around so much as Harry pulls his fingers out of him and physically spins him. Before he can get his bearings, Harry scoops him up under the arms and walks them both, stumbling, over to the bed where he drops him down.  

It’s so unexpected, so unnecessary, the he-man physicality of it all, and Louis’ so taken aback that he laughs.

It sounds a little bit crazy coming out of him, which is ok, because he feels a little bit crazy. But then Harry’s right there, kneeing over to him, cock still beautifully curving out of his pants, and the laughter dries right up inside of him.

He stares straight at Harry and spreads his legs, slowly, like a present. He's never felt so exposed in his life, thinks that there’s not a single stage in the world that could make him feel more vulnerable, and his heart swells, physically hurting him, when he realizes that he’s happy, so happy, that it’s Harry he gets to share it with.

“Hi,” Harry says again, and he’s smiling, like he knows how Louis feels. He leans down and the minute their lips connect Louis falls back flat onto the mattress, pulling Harry on top of him.

He thrusts up into Harry’s weight on him, his full weight from where he’s straddling his thighs. Harry’s clacking their teeth together and pulling at Louis’ hair with one hand while, not breaking their kiss, he moves the other down to the open space between Louis’ legs, down to where Louis is still stretched, but only a little, so that when he presses in again Louis’ breath hitches and he feels the burn come right back.

Louis can’t get his legs wide enough, can’t keep quiet enough, can’t calm down enough, and his whole body tingles, suddenly, with a rush of heat that means he’s got to do something.

He rips his head to the side, gasping out for breath, but Harry doesn’t even stop, just keeps scissoring his fingers as fast as he can and moves to Louis’ neck, biting at him hard enough to hurt.

“Oh, oh— _fuck_ ,” Louis gasps, Harry’s fingers hitting him just right. “Harry, you can—you can, faster, if—” and he’s stuttering because he can’t get enough oxygen back into his lungs, back into his brain, but Harry attacks his mouth anyways and pumps his fingers even harder.

Louis is not going to survive this orgasm, he isn’t. He’s so close, it’s _so_ close he can almost touch it, and he rocks his hips up, so Harry’s fingers get that much deeper, and he gives up, he has to, sliding a hand between them.

As soon as he wraps his hand around his dick, he cries out.

Harry leans back off his neck and looks down, watching Louis work his dick like he’s never seen him do it before.

Louis can barely see him though, is cross-eyed with it already, clenching around Harry’s fingers and rocking up into the circle of his own fist.

“H—Haz,” he whispers, desperate. “I need you to—to—,” he breaks off, eyes fluttering shut because Harry’s slid his fingers out all the way to the nail, twisting his wrist so they tug at Louis’ rim, and he breathes out Louis’ name right as he screws them back in.

Louis moans, having no idea what he was trying to say, and grips his hand even tighter around himself. Harry’s staring at him, mouth slightly open, and _Jesus_ , he’s still buttoned to the neck, the only skin Louis can see at his forearm where it’s pumping into him and the slick head of his dick, framed in his open jeans.

“You gonna come, Louis?” Harry asks, panting it out and watching his face.

And yes, this is what he needed, Louis remembers it now. “ _Fuck_ , yeah,” he grits out, sliding his hand down at the same time he clenches around Harry’s fingers.

“Shit, you are,” Harry says on an exhale, looking down and licking his lips at the slick sound Louis’ hand is making. “You wish it was Danny, in you here?” He stretches his fingers then, pulling them apart so slowly.   

It knocks Louis so off guard his hand stutters. He doesn’t have the strength to raise his head to glare at Harry so he puts it in his voice. “ _Christ._ N—no, of course not you—”

"You wish it was anybody else?"

Louis is absolutely, one hundred percent not going to survive this. "No," he gulps out, thrashing his head from side to side. 

“You sure?” Harry digs his fingers in even further.

Louis arches his back off the bed, feeling his orgasm right in his balls, right _there._

“I’m sure, I’m so sure, Harry, _please_ ,” he’s babbling, never been surer of anything in his life, and he’s shaking but he can’t help it.

"And you'll believe me, when I say the same? You'll listen?" Harry crooks his fingers and they press right on Louis' prostate. 

" _Yes,_ " Louis sobs, and he'll never doubt Harry again, not if it means he keeps his fingers just like that, unrelenting like he's trying to milk it out of him. 

“Louis.”

Louis' pulling at his cock as hard as he can, clenching around Harry’s fingers in time with his thrusts and, still, he needs more.

“Louis.”

Music soars through the vents again and he can’t believe he went so long without this, can’t believe he thought he was going to have to give it up forever, can’t believe he was ready to be a colossal fuckup before taking five seconds to focus on anything other than himself. And that’s what Harry had said earlier, hadn’t he, the sentiment echoing back to him now.

“Louis.”

“ _What_ ,” Louis snaps, and he twists his wrist, smearing the precome there so he can slide his fist in it.

“Look at me.”

Harry’s voice is absolutely fucked, but he’s pleading, so Louis takes his eyes off the ceiling and looks at Harry hovering over him. He doesn’t know how but Harry’s eyes are light again, maybe the lightest green they’ve ever been. The only thing disheveled about him is his hair, but his face looks serene, open and as inviting as Louis’ ever seen it. He’s got his head tilted down and he’s looking at Louis so softly. He doesn’t drop their gaze when he curls his fingers, slow enough so Louis can feel every knuckle, and just as Louis’ orgasm knocks into him, just as it’s starting to flood in the very base of his cock, Harry does his crooked smile, looking for all the world like he’s that same boy again, sniffling and catching his breath beside their bunk all those years ago, and he says, “I love you.”

When Louis comes, it’s so hard that it punches the breath right out of him so he can’t make sound at all. It’s the quietest orgasm he’s ever had.

He has no idea what happens after that; in one minute he was thinking, certainly, that he was going to die and in the next he’s aware of the sound of his own harsh breaths, of the sticky mess on his stomach. By the time he comes to, groggily blinking his eyes open, it’s to the sight of Harry pumping into his fist.

Harry must sense that he’s being watched because he looks up. His eyes are wild and he looks frantic, suddenly no longer as put together as before, but he grins all the same. “Louis, I have to—you were so fucking hot, I can’t—”

“Up here,” Louis says, and his voice cracks but he’s never been so happy to hear it, to know that he’s still got one. Jesus  _fuck_.

Harry just stares at him and he can’t say it again, is barely avoiding just floating off on his high, so he reaches forward and pulls at Harry’s jeans until he knees up his chest, close enough so that his fist bumps into Louis’ chin. Louis tries to smile, to say that he wants it, that Harry had better do it or else, but he’s got the strangest feeling that none of that actually comes out of his mouth, so he blinks his eyes up to focus on Harry, parting his lips and pointing at his face.

Harry barks out a laugh, like he can’t quite believe it. “On your face, yeah?” Louis has never asked for this but he needs it now, so badly that he aches.

Harry whines as he twists his wrist, pressing his thumb into his slit. He brings the thumb up to his bottom lip and runs it there, pink tongue sliding out to taste it. “You want me to paint you with it, get it all over you? Mark you? So everyone knows I'm yours?"

And Louis won’t be hard again for at least another few hours, that’s just the sad way of things, but his cock stirs anyway and he groans his approval. 

“Yeah— _fuck_ \--yeah, yeah, ok,” Harry says, and then the only sound in the room is the breaths he’s panting out, the rapid sound of his hand sliding the precome on his cock, and the soft way Louis’ name falls from his lips when he comes, finally, all over Louis’ face.

Louis closes his eyes to it, but just barely, and it hits him warm and wet, on his cheeks and chin and even his forehead.

Harry’s on him in a second, kissing him clean. He's whispering little phrases and Louis catches “love” and “always” and “stupid,” grinning in his haze and knowing that that one is for them both.

He tries to say it all back, lazily opens his mouth to him, licking the taste of Harry off his lips, salty and familiar, and the last thing he remembers before losing consciousness, before falling like a stone to sleep, is Harry smiling and shaking his head, walking back from the bathroom and wiping him clean.

 

* * *

 

Louis wakes up to the sun streaming through the window and bright behind his eyelids.

His head is throbbing and his stomach growls but he’ll be fucked if he has anything to eat before Harry wakes up to cook it. The hangover throws his sleeping schedule off though, so he has to get up. As quietly as he can, he detaches himself from the dead weight of Harry’s arm and creeps downstairs.

The house is deathly quiet and he has no idea what time it is. There are people on the couch, multiple bodies hanging off each other. People are on the balcony as well, swaddled in sleeping bags from god knows where and drenched in sun. 

Louis looks around at the state of his house. It’s hilarious how much of a mess there is, truly it is. It's too much to think about in his hungover state, so Louis shrugs and turns his back to it, trudging back upstairs.

Harry has shifted slightly in bed so his upper body is out of the covers. In a few minutes, Louis reckons about twenty or so, the sun is going to change position and come through the window and shine down right in his face.

He walks into the room, fully prepared to turn Harry on his side so that doesn’t happen, but he doesn’t get two steps in before he gets an idea. Smirking to himself, he runs back downstairs to the kitchen. He grabs the biggest pots he can find, the metal ones, and tiptoes back through the living room, just barely slipping in a puddle of something aquamarine. He shakes his head at it and laughs.

When he gets back upstairs, Harry’s still asleep, snoring softly, so Louis creeps into their room as quietly as he can and stands on the bed, until he’s standing right over him.

With all the strength he can, with all the hungover, fucked out, half asleep energy he can muster, Louis takes a deep breath and, like they’re cymbals, crashes the pots together.  

The sound is bad enough to nauseate him but what the hell, he figures. He’s already awake.

“Wake the _fuck_ up!!!” He yells, and he’s laughing through it so he can hardly get the words out. Harry jolts up so fast he probably gets whiplash, so Louis decides it’s worth it.

Before Harry can do more than shake the hair out of his eyes, Louis’ already screaming laughing and running out of the room, like a pixie, back down the steps where he crashes the metal together again, and again, so hard it hurts his shoulders.

He’s smiling so wide his cheeks hurt and he’s screaming at the top of his lungs, right in all of their disoriented faces, so everyone will know he’s here, he’s still right here, and he’s not going anywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! [holla](http://fleshriots.tumblr.com) xo


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